


Impurity

by mia_winchester



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BDSM, Background Character Death, Bondage, Bondage and Discipline, Crimes & Criminals, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark, Dark Character, Dark Niall, Dark One Direction, Darkfic, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Secrets, Hostage Situations, Kinky, Lies, Light Dom/sub, London, Los Angeles, Love, Marking, Masochism, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Party, Partying, Past Character Death, Past Drug Use, Plot Twists, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Psychic Violence, Rough Sex, Sad, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, Sex, Sexual Content, Soulmates, Spit Kink, Sticky Sex, Summer, Tension, Thriller, True Love, beach, flight, marking kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 179,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_winchester/pseuds/mia_winchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a dark side to everyone. Some showed it without fear, some used it. He hid it. Because it was more like a cruel bacterium he carried in his organs. And when he saw her, it germed. She made the hard shell of this ulcer leak. Its poison coursed into his veins as she infected him with her own darkness.</p><p>Morgan, fallen from the grace of a god she never believed in, runs into Niall, who fell from a popstar’s heaven of sanctity and now fights demons nobody suspects to live beneath the surface of what once was a life saviour to millions. On their way down to a hell made of addictions, lies, sex and pain, both have to sacrifice something dear to their lost souls: One of them loses their freedom, the other one the last remaining bit of purity they kept in a world that doesn’t give a fuck who you are when the lights go out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic found its beginning on tumblr, where I still mainly post anything related to it. 
> 
> My tumblr is niallslittle. Check out http://www.niallslittle.tumblr.com/impurity for the soundtrack playlist and image page.
> 
> I wouldn’t recommend reading this if you are easily offended/sensitive/generally under 16.
> 
> This is a Darkfic containing strong language, violence, kinky and rough sex, drug use, mental illnesses and abuse.

He was the shadow of the brightest smile on a bleached out poster in the abandoned bedroom of a strange girl that left home long ago and forgot about the achy daydreams that had made him who he used to be. He was the haunting echo of a fake laugh in an empty room, the great pretender. He wore his mask well. Neither had he ever let the blonde grew out, nor would he ever forget the lyrics to the songs some still asked him about when they met him in the streets. If they wanted him to, he sang them. With a smirk on his face. Loud and passionate, because he was passionate about everything he ever did. He had always been this way. And when what he once heard coming from thousands of mouths in a crowed arena made a stranger’s face light up as he sang it to them, it felt a little like it did back then. When the careless boy he had been enjoyed the time of his life for as long as it lasted. Well, it did last. But then, it ended.

It didn’t go out with a bang. It kind of faded into what the media called a „dramatic nothing“. He wasn’t ashamed of the past or of how it was now. There was no reason. He was proud. Proud of himself. Proud of what he had achieved. And if it wasn’t for his ambition, for his narcissism, for his huge ego, he would’ve just stayed at home, in Mullingar, raised a family, and kept the framed picture of him and his former best friends on the night stand, in honor of an era they had shaped in first line. „The biggest boyband in the world“. That was the craze that had made him a millionaire by the age of nineteen, granted him with the lifelong first row guarantee and countless invitations to every possible public event there was.

He still recieved letters. They still played their songs on the radio. And when he met one of the boys, they’d always wallow in all the good memories. Usually, he was the one who rembered the most. The time of his life. For as long as it had lasted.

But now, he wasn’t boyband member Niall Horan anymore. To them, he was relatively popular singer Niall Horan, handsome irishman of twenty-nine years, ex X Factor host and sweetheart of those who remembered his crooked teeth and saggy tanktops.

He never complained, it wasn’t like him. And when they invited him to aninterview, he went there, politely answered all the annoying questions about whether he missed One Direction, what Harry Styles was up to and why, unlike the other four, he wasn’t at least engaged yet. He made jokes and knew the now grown up girls shook their head and laughed about the man they used to be madly in love with. Without even knowing him. They believed nothing had changed. At least not about him. But they didn’t know him. They never really did.

He wasn’t happy anymore.

Even if it had surely depressed him, and there were still days on which he missed them so bad it really hurt, it wasn’t the end of One Direction that turned him into what he now was on the inside. It was different. Maybe it had always been there.

And when he saw her, the first thing that came to his mind was Zayn saying: „Don’t get me wrong, but there has to be a dark side to you.“

And him shrugging, then shaking his head, saying: „No.“

But he’d been wrong. There was a dark side to everyone. Some showed it without fear, some used it. He hid it. Because it was more like a cruel bacterium he carried in his organs. And when he saw her, it germed. She made the hard shell of this ulcer leak. Its poison coursed into his veins as she infected him with her own darkness.

„I’m Niall.“, he said, mashed and awed by his sudden nervousness.

„I know.“, was all she replied before she turned away.

She was so wrong, too. She knew nothing.


	2. Riddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights attract darkness and lonely people each other.

Those who know true fear aren’t afraid of what scares sane people. I’ve never looked for a monster under my bed, because the worst of them lay in it already.

Sometimes, it shows in my reflection. Sometimes my teeth seem like fangs, sometimes my eyes seem hollow. I’m not sorry for myself. It’s my own fault.

I could have said yes and left with him. I could have kept the sad excuse of a smile on my doll face and pretend that I’m alright. That there’s no such thing like anger inside of me. No such thing like this devastating madness that keeps me awake at night so I can talk to my demons. I could have said yes and left with him. But that’s not like me. I’m not a yes person. I’ve never been like this. Even if I agreed, I’d rather shake my head than giving in to my opponent. I’ve raised myself on white lies, cheap editions of depressing books and the ironical, immortal dream of a sweet cure for the pain I inflict myself by watching the sun rise in the violet sky above this cold hearted town, with a mug of my mother’s favorite tea in my shaky, much too small hands.

I said no and he left without me. And I should have cried, but I didn’t. I haven’t shed a single tear on the man I thought I loved. Or at least I tricked myself into thinking I did.

I didn’t deserve the flowers he brought me. Neither did I deserve his pathetic kindness, nor his vanilla kisses that tasted horrible mixed with the bitter liquor in my mouth.

I still cringe at him calling me darling.

I don’t reply to his texts. I don’t care if he misses me or if he regrets having gone without taking me with him. I don’t belong with him. I never did.

Twice a month, my mother calls and asks: „How’s Dylan?“

As if she forgot we split up, as if she believes I know how he was, wherever he was down under, whatever he did. But I tell her: „He’s fine.“

It’s a friday night and I feel like someone rammed an edgeless spoon into my stomach, turned it, then hollowed my insides. My friend Lucy once told me this is what lovesickness is like. I doubt I’m lovesick. It’s not like I didn’t love Dylan. Like I didn’t enjoy his company. Or the touch of his hands. And the sex we had. He was my first. And we’ve been together for so long, I really should be missing him. But I don’t. I’m numb. And all I care for is to intensify this. Get drunk a little, maybe. Lose myself in the middle of a crowed dancefloor. I’m going alone tonight, as usual. And when I go out, I put on something I wouldn’t mind dying in. I have this really absurd fantasy of being found under a bridge, dead, with a knife in my chest and blood on my little black lace dress. It’s not like I want to die. Quite the opposite is the case. I want to live, I want to suck all the juice from the gross fruit life is, but I hate the fucking taste of it. I limit myself and I hide in a life that I exists in my head only. My therapist says I’m histrionic and anxious. I say I’m bored.

Instead of black, I choose dark blue tonight. The dress is short and tight. The grossest men will be turning their heads after me and I won’t care. These sexist assholes won’t get to touch me. I don’t dress up for them. I do it for me. As long as I can at least visually please myself, this life’s a little easier to bear. And I like the way I look, I really do. My dark hair, even if it’s messy. My doll face, how my family called it when they all still talked to me. My body, entirely, even if it took me a while to accept and appreciate every so called flaw about it. Yes, I even like the scars from when I was eleven and wore a razorblade around my neck. It’s really funny how I both love and hate myself. My therapist says I’m narcisstic. I say I’m a little girl.

It’s past midnight when I leave the small flat that hasn’t felt like home for too long. The view from the window is beautiful, as it’s located on the top floor of an old apartment house in Marylebone, and I’ve spent the money my parents had saved for me on mainly white furniture, which made my flat look way more luxurious than the tiny chamber it actually was. It was my hiding place for when London got too loud and I’ve spent the past months in it completely, except for when I went to work, of course. I serve a café full of pretentious people in Camden and twice a week, I help Lucy’s mother in her ridiculous dog parlour.

I lock the door twice, just in case, then quietly walk down the stairs. For as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve never used the elevator. The others in the house are probably asleep already. I’m the youngest in this building. There’s an old couple on the floor below, a family with two red haired kids and an old woman with approximately six cats. I try to avoid her because sometimes I’m scared I’ll end up like her.

I don’t know where I’m going yet. Either a small club where they at least play the music I’m into, Camden, maybe, or one of those neon light galaxies in the middle of town, where you hold hands with a stranger till the break of dawn, without even knowing their name, because nobody really cares for each other in those big clubs, except for how exactly they’ll fuck after they’ve been grinding their sweaty bodies against each other for hours. I think I prefer the anonymity of those tonight. I just want to let loose, close my eyes, and pretend not even I know my name.

I shiver as I step out of the house. It’s freezing. I start walking, the sound of my slightly too high heels echoing from the outter walls of the sleeping buildings around. My coat’s too thin as well. I fold my arms and quickly cross the road, looking down on the dark asphalt that’s shiny from the rain. The next underground station is just around the corner. I unlock my phone screen to see I can save taxi money. If I hurry a little, I’ll catch the last tube for tonight. I run down the stairs and almost trip, fish my Oyster Card out of my pocket and pass through the barrier. I deeply inhale the metallic, fuggy smell of the warm station, which I’ve always loved, then get into the tube before the doors close.

There’s plenty of other people in it, some of them probably share my destination. I hate it when there’s too many passengers in the tube with me. I sit down next to an old man in a trenchcoat and pull out my phone again, just to pretend I was busy texting when actually, nobody’s sent me a single goddamn Facebook message in about six days. I choose to play Sodoku instead. In all honesty, I suck at it, but dogged people like me usually refuse to give up. About four stations and I’ll be there. That’s enough time to at least try and solve half of a riddle.

I don’t even look up from my screen as I subconciously notice I’ve arrived. I stumble through the door before it closes again and instinctively follow a group of people in fake fur coats and leather boots. They’re going where I go.

„Is it a nine, is it a seven, what the fuck’s suppposed to-“, I hear myself mumble as I climb the stairs. The cold autumn wind gives me the chills again as I step on the sidewalk, blinded by the bright lights around. I can already hear the basses from the bars and clubs around. I smirk. Four stations to go from my dormant toy village to the vivid core of the night.

The club I’m heading to is often seen on the news. Some celebrities spend their free time in roped-off lounges and there’s always a ridiculously long queue at the door. I know they’ll let me in, but getting in line’s annoying enough. I inhale deeply, cross the street before three silver cars rush by, then stop at the end of the queue, right behind two women in old fashioned overalls. They won’t be let in. I greet them with my famous fake smile but they just roll their eyes at me. I’m used to that.

Is it a nine or a seven?

„Fuck.“, I cuss. What if it’s a fucking four?

„Are you playing Sodoku?“, a voice nearby asks. I turn around to look into the freckled face of a guy my age. He’s got long, brown hair and dimples. He’s cute, but I just nod look down on my screen again.

„Let me see.“, he says. „It’s a six.“

„A six?“, I repeat. He’s right. Shit. „You’re right.“

„I know.“ I look up again to see him smile at me. He looks like the kind of guy that would iron your blouses if you’d kiss him on the cheeks for it. I can’t stand men like this. „I can help you solve the riddle. I’m Matt.“

„I’m Lily.“, I lie. Lying is fun. And other than talking to people about how I really feel, I’m good at it.

I’ve always liked making up another me for strangers and even those that consider theirselves my friend. I never tell big, bad lies, I never intentionally decieve anyone. It’s more of a comfort for me, a way to cope with the lack of action in my real life. I tell them my parents are from France and when they ask me to say something in French, I try to correctly remember what I learned in school. My French is bad, but they always compliment me though. That’s how stupid most people are.

I tell them I’m taking kickboxing lessons to appear as tough as I wish I was. I actually took some for a year, then gave up on them because I they made me aggressive rather than helping me to get rid of my worries. Sometimes, I tell them I’ve been working as a stripper, when actually, no man had ever laid eyes on my naked body before and after Dylan.

„Nice to meet you, Lily.“, Matt says and puts out his hand, hoping I shake it. I carefully grab it and immediately let go of it again. The insides of his hands are damp and cold. Gross. „So, do you come here often?“ How I hate this fucking question. But before my left over politeness forces me to reply, both Matt and I get distracted by suddenly emerging shouts and excited laughter from the other end of the queue and the crowds all around. Flashlights in the distance make the night sky even brighter.

„What’s going on there?“, Matt yells right into my ear.

„Probably some B class celebrity entering the club.“, I reply. I wonder if it’s a TV host or one of the actors they chose for the new generation of Skins. Maybe it’s an X Factor host. I really couldn’t care less. I met Ed Sheeran once. He used the toilet of the café I work at. He left some tips, but he also, as my co worker Annie told me afterwards, forgot to flush. That made me realise he’s just a human being and so is every other so called star we admire like believers admire their gods. I’ve never believed in anything godlike.

Matt gets on his tiptoes to see better and I am now completely repulsed by him.

I turn away. The queue moves. I wonder how long I’m stuck here with his idiot until they let me in. I cross my fingers and hope they won’t give him entrance. This would amuse me. A lot.

„I wonder who it is.“, Matt says. I just shrug and hope he gets I don’t want to talk to him anymore, but for as long as we wait in line, he keeps asking me the most boring questions. One time, he puts his hand on my shoulder and I shake it off.

„Sorry.“, he says and I dislike him even more.

Finally, I reach the doorman. I knew they’d let me in. A short nod and I pass him by to enter the club. As soon as I’m inside, I get warm and a little fuzzy, too. The basses from the different floors mash up to a noise in my head and a pain in my chest, but I love it. The lights around are violet and blue. I take off my coat and hurry to the cloakroom and when I’m rid of it, I go straight to the floor where they play the worst imaginable house and electro songs. I don’t care. I make my way through the quaky crowd, elbows in my sides, hair tangled up in mine, feet on my feet and a hand that did for sure not accidentally brush my butt.

I stop in the middle of the dancefloor, close my eyes and let go. I’m good at this. I shut down. I cut it all out. And then, I break free. At least for as long as they play these songs. As I open my eyes again, I percieve everything around me. From the heart shaped mole on the face of the girl next to me to the faulty stroboscope at the ceiling. I can think myself into drugged like states of my confused mind. I’m lonely in the middle of hundreds, but I’m not alone for now.

I look around into countless faces I’ve maybe seen before and forgot. My eyes wander to the stage where the DJ stands, he looks about twelve, but he’s obviously having fun. I notice a group of people behind him, in, of course, a roped-off section. As two men in denim shirts move to the right, a pair of blue eyes that look weirdly creepy in the flickering lights stares directly into mine. I haven’t experienced this often, but they give me something close to an electric shock. My stomach convulses and I gasp, unable to look away, even if keeping eye contact with the man staring at me, with features that feel subliminally familar to me hurts. Both physically and mentally. Who is he?

I feel like I know him, but I can’t get a hold of a single thought with him looking at me like that.

Finally, he blinks. Weakling. But then, he scans me. Every inch of my body, at least what’s visible with all the strangers around me. And he smirks. I know his face, I fucking know him. And I know the twitching and shaking and the blushing I’m going through in this very moment. I feel pathetic. There’s no denying I’m attracted to him. He’s sitting in a leather chair, his legs in the expensive jeans he’s wearing are crossed, his hands folded in his lap. The top five buttons of khaki shirt are lose, and I can get a glimpse of his chest. Hairy. I don’t know if I like that. I should turn away, I don’t give a fuck about men, not even those who make me as nervous as this guy does. But I can’t. I keep staring at him, keep looking at his face because I know it, I know, I know it. Not just from TV or a CD cover, I’ve seen it on pictures in my own fucking room. I’ve looked up at his face as blood dripped on my bedsheets. The self destructive me of a long forgotten past is screaming beneath the surface of what I have become. And I remember that the man I’m looking at now, the man that makes me shiver with his inexplicable, pushy stare and those curved lips smirking down on me like he’s another riddle I can’t figure out, used to be a boy on covers of countless magazines I kept in my room, a boy whose printed face I used to stroke, until I got embarassed of being so pathetic and blushed in front of the mirror whose image I despised. Yet, he was smiling in the background, together with four others, a band whose music cheered me up, even if it’s never been my kind.

Niall Horan. That was his name. I can’t keep my jaw from dropping when I realise who I’m looking at. Who’s looking me. Like that. Not the meaningless expression he had on that so much younger face back then, no, he looks at with something in these blue eyes that makes him so real, so fucking real, that once again, I feel like the stupid, confused child I was when I tried so hard to cope with the five boys I secretly admired so much being actual people walking around, probably pretty close to me, in the very moment I started crying at how bad I thought my life was. Pathetic. Ridiculous.

I’m so sick of how I used to feel, so glad it is over. But the excitement this boy has given me back then has got a hold of me now.

Niall Horan. I even remember his middle name. James.

Shit, I still got all the One Direction trivia locked up in the back of my brain. What do I do? I want to look away, but I can’t. He’s not even blinking. What the fuck is going on?

I force myself to close my eyes and when I open them again, there’s a tall guy in front of me, blocking my view. I exhale and turn around to get me something to drink. I shove people to the side, make my way through the crowd until I reach the bar, and sit down on the last free stool.

The bartender nods in my direction. „So?“, he yells.

„I don’t even care.“, I reply. „Anything fruity with a lot of alcohol in it.“

I don’t know how I’ll get home, neither how much alcohol I can take. Even if I go out regularly, I barely ever drink. But I need something now, something that makes me feel a little less confused and much less weird about these eyes, something that cheers me up, maybe, because I’m in a really bad mood. The bartender serves me a pink drink a few minutes later and I empty the glass with three sips. „Another.“, I tell him.

„I’ll pay for you.“, says someone who just appeared next to me, scrambling between me and the girl on the stool next to mine. I thought it was impossible, but the sight of whom I thought I’d gotten rid of at the front door definetly decreases my mood.

I can’t keep myself from rolling my eyes at Matt, but he acts as if he didn’t see it and smiles. Maybe he really doesn’t get I don’t want him around.

„You don’t need to pay for anything.“, I yell so he can hear me over the music, but he shakes his head.

„Please, let me.“, he says. If he wants to spend money on me so bad, I’ll let him. I shrug and order a third drink. He watches me as I toss it down.

„I was looking for you everywhere!“, he shouts. „Thought I had lost you.“

If only you did, fucker. I shrug again. „Here I am though.“, I say, not loud enough for him to hear it, but he’s reading my lips.

„Thank god.“, he laughs.

„Yeah, thank god.“

„So, are you gonna dance with me later on?“, Matt asks. I feel wednesday’s lunch coming up.

„I don’t think so.“, I reply. „Sorry.“

„You don’t like to dance?“ Doesn’t he get it?

„No, I came for the toilets. I don’t have one at home and the ones here are pretty clean, so I can wash myself and you know, take a proper shit and stuff.“

Matt’s eyes widen and I think I finally made him realise that I am neither interested in talking to, nor only being around him, but he laughs. I was joking, yes, but I didn’t mean to be funny. I wanted to gross him out or just irritate him, but he’s snorting like a fucking pig, wiping tears from his sweaty cheeks. „Good one! Good one!“, he repeatedly giggles.

I look at my hands and regret having come here. I needed distraction. I wish I could just tell him to piss off, but for some reason, it would hurt me to hurt him. After all, I’m still a good person. At least I tell myself I am. I try. He starts talking about a friend of his who really didn’t have a bathroom and sneaked into a spa nearby everyday. I stop listening at some point and focus on the music instead, wishing I was alone in this club, with nobody watching me as I dance.

But then, suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I wince, quickly turn around and face Niall Horan, right in front of me. Holy fucking Jesus on a stick.

The touch of his hand suddenly stings and I shake him off. He cocks an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth twitch, before he takes his eyes off me and reaches out to shake Matt’s hand.

„Niall.“, he introduces himself, which seems silly to me because even years after One Direction, he’s a well known man.

„I know you.“, Matt yells, obviously irritated.

„Well.“ Niall shrugs. „A lot of people think they do.“ The last words were a little too quiet for Matt to hear and I wonder if that was Niall’s intention. I wonder if he didn’t want me to hear that either.

„I was looking for you.“, he then shouts right into my ear. „Thought you were just dancing a little, but I obviously can’t leave you unobserved.“

Matt’s jaw drops, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. „Ridiculous.“, he mouths. Exactly. I don’t know what the fuck is happening. Is Niall Horan saving me from an annoying nag? Obviously. But why? Why me? I bet there’s plenty of unlucky girls in here who are desperately trying to get rid of idiots like Matt. The people around start to notice, heads turn to us and I can hear them murmur, no matter how loud the music is.

„You’re telling me she’s your-“, Matt begins, but he gives up mid sentence because Niall already nods.

„Exactly.“, Niall says. „Girlfriend.“

I swallow and it feels like millions of splinters sliding down my gullet. My head is so warm and my brain seems to prickle, I feel drunk and pranked for some reason.

Matt looks at me, still shaking his head. „Why didn’t you come here with him then? Didn’t you say whoever entered the club and made people cheer was some B class celebrity?“

„B class celebrity, ahem.“ Niall chuckles. „I see.“

„Y-you know I was kidding.“, I say and these the first words I’m adressing to Niall Horan, former poster boy, now, what? My saviour? Yes. Somehow, yes.

„Of course you were, babe.“, Niall responds and winks at me. And it makes me feel weaker than I want to. This is bad. And probably a dream. Someone probably put something in my drink and I’m drugged and actually already sleeping.

Niall manages to create this fake bond between me and him without touching me. And I’m glad he doesn’t, because that would sure as hell only make it worse. That horrible feeling in my body, which would be okay, good, exciting, great maybe, if I was susceptible for any positive feelings right now. If I was, it would annoy the living shit out of me since nervousness because of a man, or men generally, are what I needed the least lately.

„The press.“, I tell Matt. „We don’t like the press.“

„Yeah, we hate the press.“, says Niall. We. This is absolutely, hilariously well played. Matt understands. Or at least he believes he does.

„Listen mate, I’m sorry I—I hit on your, um, your girl.“, he then stutters. Hit on me as in flood me with the most boring shit I ever had to pretend to listen to.

„It’s okay.“ Niall smiles and looks about nineteen again. Then, he adds something his nineteen year old self wouldn’t have said publicly though. „Just piss off now, yeah? I don’t like it when other guys talk to her. I don’t like that at all.“

Matt raises his hands and capitulates, turns around and leaves the bar.

„He forgot to pay. What a dick.“, I baldly notice as soon as he’s disappaeared.

Niall chuckles and I finally get to turn around to look at him. I can’t cope with his closeness. And he looks good. You expect a former boyband member to look kind of wasted after their good times have been over for years, don’t you? Well, Niall looks better than he ever did. There’s shadows beneath his eyes and he’s got a few wrinkles in his pale face, but besides that, he’s the epitome of handsome. And what he just did with me, for me, flatters me.

„I’ll do it.“, he decides and takes out his wallet.

„No, don’t you dare.“, I quickly yell and grab his wrist to keep him from spending money on me. It’s not like I don’t know he sure as hell has enough to buy me the entire bar, but I really don’t want to owe him even more than I already do. Plus, the feminist in me is already raging because he overpowered my planned attempts to get rid of Matt on my own by taking the wheel and doing it his way. Then again I’m awed because he desecended from the throne the fenced up area seems like just to help me out. Me. Whom he looked at in the crowd but supposedly forgot. Well, he didn’t.

„I can pay, don’t worry, I’m not the broke ex member, Louis is.“ He laughs. I keep my fingers frimly wrapped around his wrist.

„I’m saying no. I pay for the fucking drinks and then we’ll-“

„Leave this club.“, he ends my sentence for me.

„What?“

Instead or repeating it, he just grins and nods, then winks at me again. What on earth is going on? I feel like I’m being punked. Where the fuck is Ashton fucking Kutcher? But no, on Punk’D, they play pranks on proper Hollywood stars. And I’m just an angry looking girl who’s feeling personally insulted, yet enchanted by someone who sung songs that were supposed to make me and my fellow fangirls happy.

„I’m not leaving with you.“, I say, even if it sounds more like a question.

„Why? Cause I’m just a B class celebrity and you were waiting for someone better?“ He laughs and finally puts his wallet back in his pocket. I have to let go of his wrist and my hand feels numb from the tight grip. I pull out mine and quickly pay for the drinks, even if I deeply regret it. I’m basically broke now. Thanks a lot Niall Horan. If he wouldn’t have appeared, I could have left. I could have left Matt with the fucking bill and go home and sleep.

„Don’t be stupid.“ I snarl. „I didn’t know it was you when I heard them scream at the other end of the queue.“

„And if you did?“

„I probably would’ve still called you a B class celebrity.“

He laughs so loud I think everyone around can hear him.

I wonder how long it’ll take former fangirls to realise he’s by the bar and ask him for an autograph.

I could just leave him alone with one of these then. But he doesn’t want me to leave. He repeats:

„Leave with me then. Come on.“

Is he talking sex? Does he mean „Leave with me“ as in „Let’s fuck as soon as the club’s out of sight“ or „Let’s fuck on the toilets?“. Or does he mean „Take a walk in the moonshine with me and let’s pretend my face has never been printed on irish tourist currency“?

I pinch myself, just in case. Fucking shit no. I’m wide awake. And I feel the alcohol rushing through my vibrant veins. Maybe I should have drank even more. Because it’s still hard to believe I let Niall take my hand and lead me through the crowd.

Some people scream his name and he turns around and smiles at them, waves, maybe, but he’s eager to get me out here very quick.

I have no idea what the fuck is happening. Is this the cliché beginning of one of those crappy fanfics I cried over as a teen? It feels like it. It also feels like I’m being kidnapped. I don’t know. All I know is that I forgot my goddamn coat in the cloakroom as soon as Niall and I step out of the emergency exit because he said there were paps at the front of the club. The heavy back door shuts and we can’t go back in now.

„Shit!“ I cuss. „My coat’s still in there.“

„Shops open in less than six hours.“, Niall chuckles after taking a look at his golden watch. „I can get you a new one.“

„No!“, I yell. My ears still feel numb from the bass, even if it’s completely silent around us. It’s dark, too dark in this alley behind the club and Niall takes out his cell phone to use it as a flashlight.

„What no?“, he asks, sounding way too amused.

„I don’t want you to pay for me just because you can.“, I complain. „I mean, what the fuck is even going on here right now?“

He laughs and shrugs. „I’m saving you.“

„Well, I don’t need anyone to save me.“ I can save myself, I quietly add. Eventually, I’ll have to.

„So you want to go back to this guy and let him bore you to death?“ I shake my head and watch as Niall reaches into the pockets of his jeans again, taking out a package of cigarettes. He adroitly opens it with his thumb and pulls out a cig with his lips as his other rand searches for a lighter in his jeans. He finds one, lights his cigarette and inhales deeply, before, with the stub in his mouth, he mumbles: „See. I didn’t think so.“

He blows the smoke right into my face and I squint. He just grins. „Fancy one?“, he asks.

„No, I quit smoking a while ago.“, I respond. We unintentionally start walking down the alley, away from the club, straight into the night. Where’s everyone at? Nothing here in the back seems to fit the vivid town in the front. It’s like the club is a portal and Niall took me to the world at the other side.

„Comme il faut.“. Niall doffs an imaginary hat. „I get addicted to shit like this too easily. I don’t think I can ever quit. I used to have to hide it from the press, don’t even ask.“

„Don’t worry, I won’t.“ I look at my shoes in the pale light of Niall’s cell and I shiver. It’s so fucking cold. „I didn’t think you’re this weak though. If you really want to quit, you can. That applies to everything if you ask me.“

„Hey, we sure have this conviction in common.“, he says and sucks on the smoke as if it’s his lifeblood. „That’s why I decided to aid you.“

„What?“

„I get what I want if I want it real bad.“ He looks at me with raised eyebrows and grins like a goddamn filthy thirteen year old who just discovered porn on the internet.

„Wow, you’re gross as fuck.“ He really is. Not in a bad way. I’m having fun. I’m excited. Somewhere beneath the icesheet, I’m very, very amused and happy to be out here with whom I thought I’d never even see from a distance, but actually, whatever that is I feel about the sole presence of a man, any man, who treats me like this, outweighs the echoes of being starstruck.

„I’ve been told several times.“, he agrees. „But I’m also very funny. Talented. Good looking. I think that’s pretty obvious.“

„The entire world knows.“, I say, sounding as disinterested as possible.

„Well they know the past. And what I used to have to act like.“ The only sound in the dark street is our shoes on the asphalt and Niall trying to blow rings of smoke, who look ghostly in the tentative flashlight.

„It was all a big lie?“, I ask, unable to pretend I’m not interested anymore now.

„Not all of it.“, he begins. „But a lot.“

I let that sink in, then think of another question.

„Is this what you used to do with all the girls back then? Make them leave with you, take them to a hotel or wherever we’re going, fuck them and never call them again? Knowing they’ll be happy with the memory of a night with the oh so famous singer of,-“

„Don’t be so cheesy.“, Niall interrupts. „Who needs all that effort? I just take them to the darkest corner nearby, rob, ravish and kill them. Then, I cut their bodies into tiny little pieces, put these in a bag and- I’ll stop.“ He laughs at my annoyed expression and nudges me with his elbow.

„Come on, I didn’t expect you to be such a stuck up grandma. You looked so hot from where I watched you. I’m not gonna bang a pessimistic grannie.“

„The only thing that’s gonna bang is my fist in your face and I don’t give a damn how pretty you think it is.“, I hiss. Is he fucking out of his mind? Not that the thought of sex doesn’t appeal to me. Quite the contrary. I’d love to have sex with someone else than Dylan. I’m drunk, I’m careless, and I’m excited about whatever’s going on here. And I’m strangely turned on by the weird subliminal tension in the cold air.

„I was kidding anyway.“, Niall says. „Don’t worry. We can go have something to drink. Even though you seem pretty tipsy already.“ He clears his throat and imitates the intro of the classic I already hated as a child. „Teen drinking is very bad! Yo I got a fake ID tho!“

Then, he actually attempts to beatbox, but I cannot contain my laughter anymore and totally lose it i the middle of the empty road.

„You’re the worst beatboxer I ever met in my whole darn life!“, I grunt. „Please don’t ever try this again.“

He laughs with me until we both slowly calm down. I’m never going to drink any alcohol ever again. Suddenly, even the sound of our shoes seems funny to me.

„I got a flat nearby. We could go there.“, Niall suggests.

„We’re not going to fuck.“, I warn him.

„What’s it with all the sex madness?“ His voice cracks and he spits the rest of his cigarette to the ground, only to take out a new one. „I think you’re hot and good god, I’d love to bend you over, don’ get me wrong, but your ass is nice. But I see that you’re cold and I can’t offer you a jacke, which is sad because I usually am that much of a gentleman. And I’d like to go somewhere warmer and talk to you, for as long as you can stay awake. I’m giving you shelter tonight and it’s up to you if you accept my invitation or let me take you home.“

Shit. That sounded actually appealing to me. That sounded very, very nice. I look up at him and he smiles. „Okay?“

„Okay.“, I accept.

I mean, why not? After all, I can honestly say, in this life, I’ve got nothing left to lose except for my pride and sarcasm, and these bitches seems to be on vacation tonight.


	3. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My girl, my girl, don't lie to me  
> tell me, where did you sleep last night?

I wake up in silky, white sheets. The golden afternoon sun floods the cold room, casting patterns of light on the blank walls. The buzzing of the ceiling fan above the bed I’m in is the only sound I hear. I rub my tired eyes and yawn, feeling my body slowly coming back to life. The soft fabric of whatever I’m wearing tickles my naked skin underneath as I stretch. My bones creak and I sigh.

That’s when my other senses kick in. I taste leftover liquor on my palate and lips and it’s making me sick. I smell my own sweat, just a hint of it, mixed with a scent I’ve never inhaled before. It’s a compound of heavy men’s perfume, aftershave maybe, and a mere human odor. Still dizzy and numb, I reach out for the pillow next to mine, pull it to my chest and sink my nose into the down. Who slept next to me tonight? And, more importantly, where the fuck am I?

I start to panic. I roll to the side and shove the blanket off of me, only to see I’m wearing a shirt I sure as hell never bought. It’s a loose, sleeveless Guns ‘n Roses shirt. Whose is this? Disgust comes over me. I’ve seen this in movies. What on earth has happened the night before? Did I drink this much? Did I sleep with whoever owns this place? Well, I still wear my panties. Hopefully I kept them on the night through.

I scoot to the edge of the bed and put my naked feet on the clean, white rug. Everything in here looks neat and fucking expensive. If I wasn’t that scared, shaky and completely confused, I’d be awed by the interior design. So plain, yet beautiful. There’s not much furniture, just the bed I sit on, a huge, mirrored closet, two nightstands and a leather chair. I spot my dress on it, carefully folded, and my purse on the floor. Also, there’s a door to what I think is a walk-in closet. And then I remember whose flat this is.

„Holy fuck.“, I gasp, quickly covering my mouth with my damp hands. „Holy fucking shit.“, I mumble against them. I can’t help but smile and I feel absolutely pathetic for it. At least I’m a little eased now.

I get up and tiptoe through the room. If this was a movie, I’d pick my dress up, put it on and flee. But I can’t do that, can I? It’s not like I think I’d be missing out on something. I’m the last person to be attracted to someone for their fame only. But there’s no denying I liked the side to Niall he showed me last night, before I must’ve had blacked out. And somehow I believe it would insult him if I just got up and left. So instead, I walk to the mirror, happily realising I don’t look half as wrecked as I thought I would. Maybe, nothing happened. Maybe we really just slept next to each other. Even if I don’t know if I like that, too. I haven’t been this close to someone in a long time. If only I could remember. I should ask Niall.

I walk to the door and enter the bright hall. „Hello?“, I ask, starting off quiet.

Nobody responds, so I ask a little louder: „Niall? Hello?“

I hear a rushing from behind the door next to the bedroom. That must be the bathroom. And therefore, the rushing comes from the shower. Oh shit. I hold my breath as I knock on the white wood.

„Niall?“ My voice cracks. This is much too awkward.

„Yeh?“, he finally responds. „I’m in the shower, wait, I’ll be there in a minute.“

„Oh, okay.“ I turn away from the door and lean against the cool wall, facing the mirror on the other side of the hall. There seem to be quite a lot of mirrors in here, but remembering what I knew about him during my One Direction phase, I chuckle, because what else would I have expected?

I watch my face as I grimace a little, trying to distract myself from the nervousness that’s arising in me. Then, the bathroom door swings open. I flinch and jump to the side.

„It’s still just me.“, Niall laughs as he steps out.

The sight of him makes my stupid heart skip a beat and I feel a goddamn wave of heat coming over me, too.

He’s wearing nothing but a black towel, loosely wrapped around his hips, so low I can see his fucking V lines, left and right to his happy trail. He’s not exactly toned. For some reason, his nearly middle aged body still looks shortly past pubescent. His veiny arms are covered with small drops of water, his wet hair is a mess. I sense the steam from the shower and the thought of how warm his skin supposedly still is only makes me more flustered.

„Good morning. Or afternoon.“, he says when he realises I’m speechless, more or less. His smug smile shows me he knows exactly why as well. „Slept well?“

„Y-yes.“, I reply and pinch myself in the thigh to come to my goddamn senses. I’m not gonna feed anyone’s fucking ego, especially not one that’s already that big, by staring at them like they’re a fucking god. Cause he sure as hell isn’t. He just looks like one. „I just can’t remember what happened last night.“

„Oh, we fucked.“, he casually says as he passes me by. „It was good. You came like, I don’t even know, four, five times?“

„Are you for real?“, I shout and follow him through the hall. This can’t be true. This just can’t be fucking true! I was drunk! He fucking used me!

„Yeh, ‘f course I am.“, he goes on without turning around. He’s walking straight into the kitchen, which basically looks like a TV studio for cooking shows, but I don’t give a fuck about that. I just stare at his goddamn back. Those fucking dimples above his ass only add to my anger. He grabs an apple from the counter and finally turns around. „Of course not.“, he adds in a lower voice.

I haul off and punch his chest. „Asshole!“

„Ouch!“, he hisses, unable to keep the corners of his mouth from curling up though. „That hurt.“

„You deserved it, you fuck! I thought you were serious!“, you gasp, rubbing your knuckles.

„So what? Would that have been so bad?“, he cheekily asks, cocking an eyebrow and biting the apple with a loud crack. „If we fucked?“

„Yes?“, I shout.

„Is that so?“, he mocks me. I don’t want to reply to that. I don’t want to play stupid games with him. Apple juice drips from his chin on his chest and he wipes it off with the tip of his finger, slowly leading it to his mouth so he can suck the liquid off of it. I watch him with my eyes wide open, irritated and angry. „Want one, too?“

He offers me an apple and my growling stomach tells me I need to accept. Our hands touch as I take the piece of fruit from him.

The first bite cracks loudly and my mouth waters immediately. This is perhaps the best apple I ever had in my whole life. Niall is standing by the counter, watching me eat with blatant satisfaction.

„Good, huh?“, he asks.

I nod, knowing the juice will drip from my lips if I open my mouth to talk.

„We should get something proper to eat, though.“, he goes on. „What do you fancy?“

I swallow, and a massive chunk of apple gets stuck in my throat. Shit! I cough like crazy, feeling my goddamn head heat up and gullet tighten. „F-f-uck!“, I cough.

Niall immediately grabs me by the shoulders and turns me around, hitting me on the back three times. Ouch! At least it helps. I spit the chunk on the floor, wheezing and snorting.

„Thanks.“, I mumble as I catch my breath. „I almost died.“

„I saved you.“, Niall prouldy chuckles. His hand is still placed on my back and he suddenly starts stroking it. Too much. Too close. I shake him off and step to the side. He squints as if he wonders what was wrong about touching me like this. The plain answer is: Everything. I should not be here.

I should not be walking around a stranger’s flat in his shirt and my little panties only, unsure of what happened the night before, when I should be at home. Doing nothing. Dwelling on my sorrow. Feeling like a useless piece of shit. But at least not like a pathetic attention seeker, living the teenage dream of a past self.

„What exactly happened last night?“, I finally dare to ask, trying hard not to stare at his half naked body. I wish it wouldn’t be so fucking distracting. I wish Niall wasn’t so sure of himself. I hate it.

Niall chews so slowly it’s driving me insane. „Well.“, he begins as he swalllows, „we got here, had a few more drinks and by few I mean a lot. You were proper wasted. We smoked, too. Just weed, don’t worry. Then, we played Guitar Hero on my old Playstation in the living room.“

I did what? It’s been ages since I did something that silly. And weed? Really? What was I thinking? I pray to the god I don’t believe in that I didn’t make a complete fool out of myself. But even if I did, I don’t even care. I guess I don’t. Well, I don’t want to.

„Really?“

„Why would I lie to you about that?“ He shrugs and shakes his head. „You made me look like a fucking fool. I can show you the scores if you don’t believe me.“

„No, it’s okay, I believe you.“ I really do. Even if there’s something about him that seems weird to me, something I haven’t quite figured out yet, I know that these words must be the truth.

„So, I won?“, I ask on.

„Yeh, you did. Embarassing enough, regarding my incredible guitar skills. But I suck at this game to be honest. Haven’t played it in years. But it was fun with you. You totally rocked Carry On Wayward Son.“ He smiles at me, but I just stare back.

We remain quiet, eating our apples and looking at each other with complete different expressions.

„Niall, can you take me home?“, I then ask. I’m a little scared it’ll insult him, but he bursts out laughing.

„Good one!“, he cackles. „Wanna forget about our midnight memories from when we stayed up all night yesterday?“

„What?“ I honestly don’t get it first, but then I realise he thought I refered to one of his band’s albums. „Oh. I didn’t intend on that.“

„’f course you didn’t.“ He winks at me. He doesn’t believe me. „So, why don’t you want to take a chance? Go out with me. I’m inviting you. We’re going for a stroll, I’ll get you a new dress so you don’t have to walk around in me shirt all day long.“

His accent coming through touches some sore point in me. „I don’t want to.“, I say though. Maybe I haven’t thought this through, maybe it’s stupid not to take the chance and go out with what used to be one of the most famous celebrities there were on this entire fucking planet, but I honestly don’t mind that. All I feel is the longing to go back home, take a shower, breathe, breathe, breathe. Try to get over whatever happened and move on with life.

But isn’t that what I’ve been waiting for? A goddamn wake-up call? A bright island in this ocean of darkness, or at least a little movement in the grey still my life had become? It was crazy, surreal and for everyone who would’ve been able to fully appreciate stuff like this, definetely something they’d call too good to be true, but I was just exhausted, overstrained, absolutely done. The apple starts to taste gross and I put it down.

„You don’t want to?“, Niall repeats, still grinning. He just doesn’t believe me. He’s probably not used to it. For some reason it stings a little to think about that, but he sure as hell takes a lot of girls home with him and I just know none of them turned him down like I do, now. But I feel uncomfortable. I can’t exactly explain why. There’s a weird feeling in my stomach that gets worse each second. I feel sick and it’s not the apple.

„No.“ I shake my head. „I’m sorry.“ I really am. Because the moment he realises I’m speaking the truth, something in his face changes. A drop of water from his hairline runs down his cheeks as they turn pale. It stops at his prominent upper lip.

„Fine, I’ll- I’ll take ya home.“, he stutters in a low voice. He throws the core of his apple into the bin and I hand him the rest of mine, giving him an electric shock. He winces and looks at me with undeniable daze in his big blue eyes. „Come on then.“

„I’ll get dressed.“, I say and turn away to leave the kitchen before this sight makes me throw up on the white piles.

„You can keep that shirt if you like!“, he yells after me as I hurry to get to the bedroom. „See it as your trophy if you like.“

What the fuck is he talking about? Is he serious?

„Niall, I don’t need a goddamn trophy.“, I reply. „We didn’t fuck. Did we?“

The sunlight is blinding me. I’m thankful for how cold it is inside of Niall’s flat because I’m sure it’s unbearably hot out there. I walk to the leather chair and unfold my dress, scanning the fabric for stains. There are none. I’ll look stupid, the typical walk of shame style. At least he’ll give me a ride, so not many others will get to see me like that.

„I told you I didn’t fuck you.“, he responds, his voice suddenly sounding from right behind me. I quickly turn around to see him in the doorframe, holding his arms above his head, clinging to the wood and rocking back and forth on his heels. His muscles are flexed, each vein on his arms and lower stomach so prominent I can almost see the blood rushing through. The towel slipped a little lower, didn’t it? Fucking hell. Did this fucking wanker do that on purpose?

„How many times do I have to say it, huh? I don’t fuck girls without their consent. And you were pretty drunk. See, I might be an asshole, but I’m not a total bastard.“ He sounds so concerned and it only adds to my nausea.

„You’re not an asshole, Niall.“, I sigh and turn my back on him so he can’t see my breasts as I take his shirt off and slip into my dress, even if he probably did last night. I feel him tickling my spine with his stare and a half asleep part of me enjoys it. „For all I know, you’ve been treating me well.“

„Then why do you want to leave?“

His questions lingers in the cool air like toxic gas. I hold my breath and close my eyes, trying to find a proper answer in the black behind my lids, but I can’t find any words to explain why I’m feeling this way. It’s like a convulution in my brain is blocked. I know I’m uncomfortable, I know I’m confused, but I also sense something else, something daunting. Whatever that may be, it makes this large room feel like a small chamber.

I try to zip my dress, but my fingers are shaking. Niall sees it and crosses the room to help me.

„I could do that alone last night.“, I hiss at him, a little too harsh.

„I’m helping you now.“, he decides and grabs my wrist to make me let go of the zipper. „Hold still.“

He slowly zips my dress while I nervously stroke my hair. His warm breath on my neck makes me shiver. He’s too close again. As soon as he’s done, I step forward, enlarging the space between us.

„Don’t worry. I’m not gonna touch you if you don’t want me to.“, he mumbles.

„Thanks.“, I say. Rather than apologising for acting so repellent because it’s my fucking right to keep him at distance.

I take a look out the window for the first time. We’re on the top floor it seems, I assumed that before. Down below, there’s a river, trees on the other side. It’s the Regent’s Canal I guess.

„Nice view.“

„I know.“

„I can take the tube if you tell me the next station.“, I offer him. I know the way home.

„You, young lady, are literally the rudest person I’ve ever shared my bed with.“ He laughs and I smile too, happy he can’t see my face as I still look out the window.

„I know. Out of the two of us, I’m afraid I’m the asshole.“, I mutter and shrug.

„I like that.“, he confesses.

I turn to him and he grins again. I’m happy he’s not as mad as he could be, regarding my behaviour and somehow, I hope he really likes it. I can’t help but grin back, even if it makes me feel ashamed.

„Come on then.“, he says. „We’ll take my car. I mean, I could throw you into the canal, too. That’s perhaps the most uncomfortable way for you to get home if that’s what you’re looking for.“

„You’re a prick.“

His jaw drops open as if he was offended, but I know he’s not. His fucking eyes glimmer like two shiny aquamarines.

„You wanna watch me get dressed?“, he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

I shake my head and stick out my tongue. „No, ew.“ He knows I’m kidding, but I’m leaving the room either way. I wait in the hall until he’s right behind me again.

„Ready to go.“, he declares.

He put on a plain black shirt with a very loose v neck, black pants and white sneakers. It looks good. Shit.

We walk to the door and as I leave his flat, I turn around, looking to the bedroom door at the other end of the hall. I try to tell myself that this was probably the last time I’ve been here, but I know I’m wrong. And I hate myself for being able to lie to everyone but me. Not only do I know I’ll be, somehow, forced to get back here, no, I kind of wish to return sooner or later. That’s so wrong.

Leaving now feels right. Not very good, in all honesty. But right.

What feels good, but wrong, is sitting next to him in his car a few minutes later, the most luxurious vehicle I’ve ever even saw from the outside. Black and silver on the outside, white leather on the inside. This is the hottest fucking Range Rover ever. Everything in here screams manhood. It’s ridiculous. I reach out to stroke the soft looking dashboard, letting my fingers wander to the radio.

„Put some music on.“, Niall tells me before he starts the car.

„Driver picks the music.“, I offer him, but he insists on letting me choose.

„It’ll take a while to take you home because I have no idea where the fuck you live.“

„Marylebone.“, I tell him as I open the glovebox to look for CDs rather than searching for an appropriate radio station. They play a lot of crap at this time of the day. There’s shit loads of records in there and I take a stack out, hoping Niall doesn’t mind. He doesn’t seem to, at least.

He watches me with that smug little smile on his face, running his hand through his still wet hair and probably wondering which CD I’ll pick. There’s literally everything from Johnny Cash to the Backstreet Boys, John Mayer, Eminem and, of course, The Eagles.

I decide to mock him a little by picking a CD called ’80s mixtape’ from the bottom of the stack.

„Oh really? Retro? New Wave and shit?“, he asks. „You’re into that?“

„I feel like it right now.“, I say and put the CD into the player, waiting for the first tune to begin. I just want to annoy him a little. I feel like picking on and teasing him a little eases the undeniable tension between the two of us.

As soon as the dubs of ‘Word Up’ sound, Niall’s face lightens up even more, though.

„That song’s fucking great. Don’t dare to skip it.“, he says and finally starts the motor, beginning to sing along, pulling weird faces while he drives his Range Rover off the parking lot in front of the large house his flat is in.

He dances behind the steering wheel and I can’t help but laugh again, feeling like an absolute idiot. He’s even funnier and weirder than I used to think he was and suddenly, I wish I could remember every little detail abnout last night. I probably acted like a completely different person. Not grey. Not numb. Not sad. Not the usual bitch, no, a nice, maybe funny, vivid girl. But, of course, the good memories had to vanish from my mind and only leave the bitch behind.

„Do your dance, do your dance-“, he sings, holding an invisible mic to my mouth, but I refuse to be this silly. „Do your dance quick, maaaama! Come on baby,-“

I keep shaking my head and he gives up.

„You’re boring, Morgan.“, he stops for an almost unoticable split second and even I am a little paralyzed by the sound of name, coming from his mouth. „So boring.“ I must have dropped it last night, drunk and for once not in the mood to lie. I rarely ever tell people my real name.

„My name sounds like an insult when you say it“, I complain.

„Not my intention.“, he apologises. „I like your name.“

He smiles, but the grip of the fingers around the steering wheel is so tight his knuckles turned white. A crazy thought emerges in my mind, but I drown it in the familar nothingness.

We remain quiet for a while as the music’s too loud anyway. ‘Sweet Dreams’ by Eurythmics, then ‘Don’t You’ by Simple Minds. Niall has stopped singing and I can’t keep myself from remembering one of the few weekends I spent with my dad back in my childhood. We went to Brighton and he told me to think of the song whenever I missed him. I didn’t quite understand, I was only six or seven, but now I do. And it makes me sick.

„Can we skip this?“, I ask and reach out to push the button before Niall responds.

„Sure.“, he unnecessarily says, looking at me with slight confusion in his blue eyes. „It’s a classic, thought. Breakfast Club! Why don’t you like it?“

„Some songs remind some people of some stuff they sometimes don’t want to be reminded of.“, I respond with a sigh, hoping it doesn’t come off too pseudo profound. „Keep your eyes on the street, idiot!“, I add, for he keeps staring at me.

He chuckles and does what I told him. „Did you just call me an idiot?“

„Yes.“

„So, it’s been an hour maybe and you already called me a prick and an idiot.“

„I told you I’m an asshole.“ I click my tongue. „I’m a bad person.“

„I can’t tell yet. But I’ll find out I guess.“ He smirks, obvioulsy so sure he’ll see me again after this. Will he? I don’t know. Do I want to see him again? I have no fucking clue either.

„We’ll see.“, I mumble.

„Each other again.“, he adds to my sentence and laughs.

I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair. I still can’t believe this is really happening.

Then, finally, after telling him to turn left, left, right and left again, he stops the car right in front of my house. He leans to the side to look out the window and inspects my home.

„So that’s where you live.“, he says. He’s, of course, not impressed. Did he expect me to be richer? My family’s been rather wealthy, but I chose not to depend on my mum and her boyfriends anymore. I chose this life, I chose this place. What I didn’t choose was being taken here by Niall Horan. Suddenly, I feel a little embarassed. And I hate myself for it.

„Thanks.“, I grumble and grab my purse, then open the door. I just want to get out of the car before any of my weird neighbors notice me.

„You’re more than welcome.“, Niall says and winks at me. His voice sounds soft, a little alarmed maybe. And I know why. „I’d like to see you again.“, he adds. Luckily, he’s that blunt.

„Fine.“ I nod, wondering if he knows what he’s getting himself into. „If you really want to, we will.“

„I want to.“

I force myself to smile at him, but he sees I’m not serious.

„You don’t want to.“, he assumes. „What’s wrong with you? Or, what’s wrong with me?“

„Nothing, really. This is just… a little too much for me.“

„Me?“

„No.“ How can I put my feelings into words without sounding like a complete dork? I don’t even know what I’m feeling. All I want is to get out of the car, breathe in some fresh air and flee into my flat, which is hopefully not as warm as I’m afraid it’ll be. A part of me feels sorry for having to leave Niall now, but it comforts itself with the strange belief I’ll really meet him again. Despite what I think is honesty, there’s something else in the way he looks at me, which makes me wonder if he’s either really keen on seeing me again or not at all. I can’t tell. He confuses me, everything confuses me.

„It’s okay, hun, I’ll let you go now.“, he says. „You don’t need to spend time with me if you don’t want to. But now I know where you live. In case of need, I’ll just break into your flat and kidnap you.“

„Oh, you sure will.“ I pucker my lips and nod, then open the door. A warm breeze of summer wind tickles my naked knees. I can’t wait to get out of this dress again and take a cooling shower.

„Wait.“ He puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s cold and damp and the sudden physical contact makes me flinch.

„What?“, I hiss as I scoot off the seat and get out of the car. I lean against the open door and wait for him finally say goodbye.

„Well“, he bites his lower lip and looks up to me, „I was gonna make you promise we’ll meet again but then I remembered there’s absolutely no doubt we will.“

„And you’re so sure about that because…?“, I follow up on it.

„I always get what I want.“

Is he flirting with me again? Ugh. He really needs to stop. Not that I don’t like it. I do. But it also, and I don’t know why exactly, intimidates me. To a point at which it almost scares me.

„You do?“, I ask. „How come?“

He shrugs. „I’m Niall.“

„I know.“, I say and turn away. „But that doesn’t make any difference, right?“

Shots fired. Maybe that was a little harsh. It’s not like I don’t like him. Quite the opposite is the case. And that’s the problem. Nothing like that ever happened to me before. When I woke up and saw him coming out of the shower, I felt drawn to him right away. Maybe I was just thankful he spent the night with me, kept me safe, took me home with him. Maybe it was the dumb part of me that was excited about having slept next to a former popstar. Like he just said: He’s Niall. But no. It wasn’t his name or his flat or the Range Rover that made me feel so dazed. It was something else. The way he bit his apple and how the sticky juice dripped down his chin. His white knuckles and how he pronounced my name. His wet hair, his goddam, daunting eyes. The veins beneath his pale skin.

I turn to him again to look straight into his slighty disappointed face.

„Goodbye.“, he mouths. I don’t respond. I walk straight up the stairs to the house I wrongly call home. As soon as I close the door behind me, I stop. I rest my head against the cold tiles and listen as Niall guns the engine and leaves.


	4. Stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's the kind of dirty you can't wash off your sheets.

She is a fake readhead with a fake tan and the smile on her flawless face is fake, too. Maybe that’s why he chose her tonight. Because he feels best among liars. He spent most of his life around pretentious people, until he became good pretending, too. Acting like he was happy, when he wasn’t. That’s been his main job for years. Then, acting like he didn’t care, when he cared too much. And recently, acting like he wasn’t who he turned into.

The redhead doesn’t know. She sees him at the bar, whispers into her ugly friend’s ear, bites her lip and walks over to him. Slowly, trying to seductively swing her narrow hips from left to right. She’s too tall and way too skinny for his taste. She looks like one of popular private school girls, a preppy, pretty, evil thing. He doesn’t mind tonight. Her friend in the background watches. Maybe they made a bet.

Her voice says „How are you?“, but her eyes ask how long it’s gonna take until he’ll leave with her. This is sure as hell a bet. He’ll let her win.

After Morgan closed the door behind her and left him alone in the car, it all came crashing down. The goddam lump in his throat choked him, the pent up anger in his chest felt like it was going to break his ribs from the inside. He closed his eyes and hit the pedal. It’s been a while since he drove this fast. He always felt a little silly speeding through town in a car as big as his, but he didn’t care anymore.

There were just two thoughts on his mind and both of them had been caused by the girl who just turned him down: Rage. And sex.

He did something about the rage as soon as he got home again. He packed his stuff and headed straight into the gym. He rarely ever went there, but he needed to blow off some fucking steam. And before he got into a random street fight that probably ended up in the newspapers the day after, he better put one of the punching bags to use.

Covered in sweat and with aching arms, he went to the shower. He didn’t grant the other men a single look.

The water was too cold and therefore exactly what he needed. He started to feel a little eased. Not completely, though. As he closed his eyes, he wished he could rinse his mind, but her face was stuck in his head. And no matter how much water he gulped down, he couldn’t swallow her name. He realised that the lump in his throat was the urge to say it again. Morgan.

„My name sounds like an insult when you say it.“, she had said. And out of all the bad looks she had given him, out of all the harsh replies, these words had affected him the most.

He thought of how she smiled the entire night through, how she laughed. And how she tried to kiss him. He didn’t tell her about that because he didn’t want to make her feel embarassed. When he saw her at the club, he thought she was just an extraordinarily beautiful girl. Special, in her own way. But as soon as he heard her talking, he knew she really was special. She was different. Not less of a beautiful girl. But different.

Not a good girl. But not the type of girl he could fuck without feeling guilty for using her afterwards. Not a bad girl. But not the type of her that kept her mouth shut and agreed with what he said. And ever since the goddamn X Factor, it had seemed as if everyone had always agreed with what he said. There was something in her grey eyes that provoked him. He hadn’t known her for a day but she unknowingly hit all of his sore spots. And created a few more.

Now that he felt a little less angry, he had to take care of what her lips and legs and hips and breasts had done to him. Find a substitute and fuck.

And there she was.

„I’m alright, thanks.“, he says and grins. He knows they can’t resists his smile. „How are you?“

„Good.“, she replies and leans against the bar.

„I assume you want a drink.“

She nods and he orders a vodka martini for her, pure vodka for himself and some shots. She stares at his nose, obviously taking note of some leftover powder at his nares.

„What’s your name?“, he asks as the bartender serves the drinks. He doesn’t even care, but it doesn’t seem as if she’s going to talk to him unless he keeps asking and even though they both already know where they’ll be as soon as the glasses are empty, it wouldn’t be his way to straight forward tell her to follow and suck him off.

„Emily.“, she answers and blushes.

„I’m Ni-“

„I know.“, she giggles. „I know who you are.“

„You sure do.“ He grins again, hoping she can’t tell it actually doesn’t delight him in the slightest.

„How couldn’t I?“ She sips on her drink and licks her lips. „Niall Horan.“

He clicks his tongue and empties his glass with one swig. „Exactly.“

„You’re famous.“, she says and strokes his hand as she reaches out for the shots. All accidentally. Of course. He almost bursts out laughing. Emily is pathetic. Most of them are. And it never bothered him. It used to be fun. But one night only made him question himself. The wall behind the bar is mirrored and he can see himself with Emily, suddenly disgusted by his own face. One night only exposed the shadows on his soul to his lying reflection and the voices he tried so hard to keep quiet for so long now scream at him.

„I guess so.“ He shrugs. „At least I once was.“

„You look better than ever.“, she compliments him. Goddamnit, will she stop? This is embarassing.

„And honestly, I always thought you were the most talented out of-“, she goes on, but he puts his finger on her lips to hush her. „Let’s skip this, okay?“, he says, sudden pressure subjugating him. „You want me to fuck you, right?“

Emily’s pale face turns even whiter and she turns her head to see if any of the people heard what Niall just said, but nobody seems to have taken note. Except for her friend, whose jar drops open at the sight of Niall putting his hand on Emily’s tiny waist „That’s k-kind of blunt.“, she stutters. „I,-I“

„That’s how I am.“ He winks at her to make it all seem less creepy when in fact he knows he’s too

hasty. But he couldn’t care less.

„Well-“, Emily looks at her friend who nods energetically. „I think we could leave this place first and then we’ll see.“

„Great.“, he gulps down the last shot, pays without paying attention and wraps his arm around Emily to escort her out of the bar. He doesn’t look at her friend as they pass but he feels how keen she must be. Emily is shaking. If he wasn’t grossed out by her behaviour and himself for fucking her despite it, maybe he’d find her cute.

Yet, as he leads her to the door, wondering if he should take her to a hotel or just the next backstreet, he can’t help but thinking of the night before and how different it felt leaving with the other girl. Morgan. The redhead had to be the complete opposite of the stranger that slept in his bed. Emily seemed joyful and vivid, but dull and empty at the same time, whilst as far as he could tell, Morgan came off cold and dismissive first, but he knew she hid so much more inside. There’s been such captivating depth behind those piercing eyes. He never believed in love at first sight and almost laughs at the thought of this absolutely ridiculous term, but there was no doubt he was more attracted to her than to any girl he’s ever met before and there was surely no use in trying to deny it. The only thing he’d keep trying to deny were the consequences to his affection. He should stay away from her. Get her off his mind. But he already knows that Emily isn’t going to help him. It’s worth a try, though.

As he walks down the street with her, cracking a few dumb jokes and almost cringing at her stupid laugh, he places his hand on her lower back and kisses her cheek. She giggles and tells him how hot he looks and he tells her the same, even though he doesn’t think so. He’s aware of the envious eyes of all men they pass by, just like he feels the women at the other side of the street staring at him, jealous of Emily’s looks and companion. But he’s used to all this. And it’s boring. All he wants is to get off and get away.

„You’re so sexy.“, he whispers into the deep red curls. „So hot.“

She doesn’t hestitate to kiss him, parting his lips with the tip of her tongue so she can slide it in his mouth. This is going to be easier than he thought.

„Come here.“, he says as he spots a narrow alley between two houses. „I can’t wait any longer.“

He really can’t. He doesn’t think he can take any off the shallow small talk any longer and the next passable hotel is too far away. There’s no chance he’s taking her home, so he’s going for the previoulsy second option. He’ll take her right here, in a dark corner behind some family’s house. That’s the sweet life of the rich and famous.

Thankfully, Emily doesn’t seem to need any foreplay. Maybe it’s the mere fact that she’s sucking a former popstar’s cock next to a dumpster that got her so wet by the time he pulls her back on her feet. He pushes her against the cold wall and grabs her barely existent butt to lift and let her wrap her legs around him. She just moans and whimpers, way too loud. He tries to communicate with her, but all she ever does is nod and pull a weird face.

So he closes his eyes and tells her to shut up as he starts thrusting into her, quickly slamming his hips against hers to get the maximum of pleasure in a minimum of time.

It feels good, of course it does, even if it’s a bit like fucking a doll because Emily is steady in his grip and simply lets him have his way with her. He increases his pace.

„Ouch.“, he hears her hiss. „Niall, you’re going a bit too-“

„Shut up.“, he groans. „You want me to stop?“ That wasn’t a concerned, but a provocative question. He knows she doesn’t.

„No.“, she whimpers. Then, she remains quiet until he finally cums, with a loud „Fuck“ and a last hard thrust that makes Emily’s head bump against the wall with a thud.

„Shit.“, she whines as he puts her down and pulls up his pants again.

„You okay?“, he asks as if it mattered to him.

„Yeah, sure.“ She’s lying. She just doesn’t want to offend him. Stupid girl. He smirks. Actually, that’s how he likes it, isn’t it?

„That was good.“, he pants.

„Hell yes.“, Emily agrees. She’s lying again. She didn’t cum. She wasn’t even close to it. Does she think he’s stupid? Or does she just know he doesn’t care for her orgasm?

„I’ll go home now, but-“ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen. „I’ll give you my number.“

She squeals and he he laughs. „Excited much?“

„Yeah, it’s just, wow, I mean…“ She’s breathless. He’s repulsed. He watches her as she fixes her dress. There’s a cum stain on it. Should he tell her? Well she probably won’t wash this dress anyway. It’s proof of how she won the bet.

„It’s okay, hun. Give me your arm.“, he says instead. He’ll lull her a little so she won’t feel that used afterwards. At least give her an illusion of interest in her. He writes down his phone number on her damp, pale skin and she thanks him with a kiss. „Sorry we have to part so abruptly.“ He’s not sorry at all.

He walks back to the bar with her to at least make sure she’s safe from other guys like him, which is really paradox ,then says goodbye and leaves her behind. He’s not going home now, though.

Straying through the night, he hopes for her not to notice that he didn’t give her the right number as much as for the trivial satisfaction to last a little, too. But it doesn’t.

The following week passes like the white clouds above. It’s gotten a little windy and on Wednesday, it rains. He was supposed to meet an old friend of his, but cancelled the plans last minute. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone. He slept, drank, played the guitar and went to the gym. Did some lines on his own, felt good, came down from his high and felt like his brain would explode.

Thursday night, he proudly realises he hasn’t thought much of the girl with the grey eyes through the day, but he was too stoned to think straight anyway.

Friday morning, he gets up, stretches and walks into the living room to get the little box he keeps his weed in from the shelf. It’s almost empty. Enough for two blunts or three, though.

„Crap.“, he sighs. For some reason, even though he didn’t do anything productive, this week’s been so tough he knows he wouldn’t have made it through without drugging himself. What now? He’s got to call his dealer anyway, but this bastard usually takes far too long to get there.

Niall grabs the box and walks to the windows to roll some on the sill. That’s the annoying part. Not seldom did he wish he could hire someone to do that for him. Well, he could. He grins as he, once again, realises, that there’d sure as hell be some people who’d gladly roll his joints for him. As soon as the first one’s skinned, he puts it on his lips and lights it. The first drag is the best. Deep, stifling, ticklish. He stares down on the water, blowing rings of smoke. Maybe he’ll visit his dealer rather than calling him today. Seeing him is probably not his main reason to leave the house today, though.

____________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________

There’s a huge stain in my bed and my panties are soaked in blood, too.

„Fucking shit.“, I groan as I pull the bedsheet off the matress. Of course I had to get my period in my sleep. As I get up, a horrible cramp in my lower stomach makes me whimper in pain. Holy crap. This is bad. I not always get cramps, but when I do, it feels like I’m about to give birth to a goddamn kraken. I sit down on the blank matress and rub my achy stomach. It’s already 10 am and I should get dressed for work, but I can’t fucking move. For real this time. Not just because I’m unmotivated as usual.

I reach out for my phone on the nightstand and go through my contacts to call my boss Nathan, who runs the Cuppa Coffee in Camden. Scrolling down, I see a name among the N’s I didn’t expect to see there. Another cramp comes over me with a shiver caused by the sight of those five letters.

„This can’t be real.“, I mumble. Niall saved his number on my phone. I hadn’t realised until now. I barely ever called anyone and how would I have known? This asshole took my phone. And saved his number. I don’t know if I should feel flattered or scared. He must have taken it when I was asleep. It’s exactly a week ago that I met him, but it feels like a month. Time passes slowly when nothing ever happens. Well, whatever it was with Niall happened. And his number in my phone is a sure proof. Did he think I’d call him? Crap. Fuck! Maybe I even asked him for the number when I was drunk. That must be it. It’s probably not even the right number.

Even if it seemed like he actually cared, a part of me really refused to trust him. It felt more like a dream than a memory anyway. I shake my head as if it would help and tap on Nathan’s name to tell him I can’t come to work.

I’m glad my boss is a young, understanding guy, and I’m glad he likes me a lot, too much maybe, because his attempts at flirting with me make me more than uncomfortable. He says I can take the day off and that I should stay home tomorrow, too.

„Do you want me to bring you some tea?“, he asks.

„No, thanks.“, I reply. I say goodbye and hang up. I don’t want to see anyone today, except for the women in the bakery down the street, who’ll sell me all chocolate covered things. I’m craving pastries like crazy.

I stare at my phone and know I should get up, but before I go to take a warm, soothing shower, I inhale deeply, hold my breath and tap on the name right beneath Nathan’s.


	5. Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you happy?  
> Am I too close to you?  
> Are you scared?

„Um, hi, this is-“

„Morgan!“, Niall interrupts me. What the fuck? „I remember your voice.“

„I see. You really d-do.“, I stutter. Did I expect him to forget me? Well, a part of me did. My hands are shaking and my throat feels so tight, I can barely keep myself from cringing. My lower stomach convulses. I lay back on bed and stare at the ceiling as I listen to Niall breathing at the other end of the phone. His pants go heavy.

„I’m glad you call.“, he sighs. Sounds as if he’s in a hurry or something. I shouldn’t have called. I mean, what on earth am I supposed to talk about to him? How weird it was waking up in his flat? Not just because of who he was, but what he was. A strange man, a random guy I met at a club. Whom I allowed to take me with him, who touched me. Who got closer to me than anyone else did in a long, long time. I know we didn’t fuck, but I feel like we did. I feel exposed and, what’s even worse, I’m still excited. Not because of who he was, but what he was. A man. And a goodlooking one. A man the emptiness inside of me longs for. Not sexually. I don’t understand. I understand nothing. He gave me his number and I called. A plain, common act of two young people who met and got along. But it’s different in your case. Not because of what you are, but who you are.

When he realises you won’t respond, he adds: „Why did you keep me waiting for so long, though? Enjoy playing hard to get?“

Is he serious? I’d laugh if it didn’t increase those fucking cramps. „Hard to get? Just because I call you now doesn’t mean you get anything.“

„Enjoy playing cheeky, too, huh?“, he laughs and inhales deeply.

He’s fucking flirting with me, isn’t he? I really shouldn’t have called. I shake my head, then realise he can’t see that. „I’m not playing. What the fuck are you doing? Why are you panting like this? Are you okay?“

„Yeh, I’m fine, I just- I’m running.“, he stops, gasping for air. „Are you at home?“

„Yes?“ Why would he want to know? I get up from the bed and get some fresh bed sheets, desperately trying to put them on my matress with one hand.

„W-what do you see when you look out of your bedroom window?“

I couldn’t be more confused. „I see the street below.“

„Okay.“

„Okay? Why do you wanna know? Gonna come for a visit?“ I laugh, finally done with the bedding. I sit down again.

„Maybe.“, he chuckles. Sure. „How are you, by the way? Shame I didn’t ask already.“

„I could be better to be honest.“, I reply. „I feel a little sick.“

„Ate something bad? I had food poisoning some months ago. That sucked ass.“

„No, I’m just bleeding from my vagina.“

„Your v- Oh, I see.“ He laughs and the small part of me that cares a bit about what others say is eases he doesn’t mind my bluntness. „Got cramps?“

„Like crazy.“, I say when said cramps make me whimper again. „It hurts real bad.“

„You want me to come over and take care of you?“, he suggests. Another part of me I don’t pay much attention to being busy feeling nothing cheers. That would be cute. But of course I say no. I don’t want him around when I’m a bleeding, moody mess and generally don’t want him around anyway.

„Better not.“, I mumble. „I’m just gonna shower, get some pastries and go back to bed.“

„Okay, if you say so.“, he sighs. „You don’t wanna see me again?“

„I-“

„Don’t lie. You do.“ I can hear that he’s smirking, that cocky little asshole.

„Maybe I do, but honestly-“ I take a deep breath before. It’s hard for me to confide in someone. I’m always honest and blatant, but I prefer to keep my feelings to myself. „I’m confused and I don’t know how to feel about the situation.“

„Because it’s Niall Horan you’re talking to.“, he assumes and I picture him grinning. Why does he have to look so good, even if he’s just an image I’m making up in my head?

„No.“, I shake my head. „Not because it’s Niall Horan, you idiot. Do you think I’m a chaser?“

He takes a deep breath and says „No. I don’t.“

„Honestly, of course it’s a little weird, but you’re not as special as you think you are.“ Was that mean? Doesn’t matter. It’s just what I’m thinking.

„Oh, thanks a lot!“ He laughs and his voice cracks. He seems to have stopped running. „I’m not? I thought I was very special. Bummer.“ I bet he’s just making it sound like a joke when he’s actually serious. He’s full of himself and I guess he’s always been. He might not think I’m a chaser but he sure as hell thinks I’ll chase him if he shows me I can. He probably believes I’m just trying to seem different to the rest to come off more interesting. If only he knew who he’s talking to.

„It’s because you’re a man and-“

„Brand new information, haha!“, he interrupts me. „Are you- are you a lesbian?“

„No, I’m not.“, I sigh. „It’s just, it’s been a while since I spent time with, let alone talked to men who weren’t co-workers or customers at work. Or my father, but he calls like once a year.“

„That sucks. I’m sorry. I’m here if you wanna talk your Daddy issues.“

„Is this supposed to be funny?“ What an asshole. I really regret calling him.

„No? I’m serious. You can talk to me if you need anyone. Except if you plan on sticking to the past and not talking to men. What were you trying to say, anyway? What is it about men that confuses you?“

„I’m not going to tell you the whole story.“ I stroke my leg and look at my nails. I always fail at trying to grow them. As soon as the white tips show, I nibble them off.

„You will. Not now, maybe, but I’ll get you to tell me sooner or later. I want to know.“

„You’re gonna get me drunk again? Drug me, maybe?“ He really upsets me now.

„No. Let’s stop this now, shall we? You sound mad. I didn’t want to offend you.“

„But you did.“

„I’m sorry, Morgan. Hold on, okay? Don’t hang up.“ I can hear voices in the background and a bell ringing, then it’s all silent. He probably put his hand on the speaker so I can’t hear what’s going on. I’ll hang up if it takes too long, I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll even delete his number when this is over. I just feel like I owe him an explanation as to why I’m confused. Maybe I just hope to understand once I try to say it out loud.

„You still there?“, he asks and I flinch.

„Yes, I’m here.“, I reply. „Listen, I feel like this makes no sense at all. You’re flirting with me and-“

„Do I?“

„Could you stop with those fucking questions, you goddamn idiot? I’m trying to explain it to you.“

„Go on, then.“ He tries hard not to laugh. I feel like I’m starting to hate him. Hating is so easy. Liking a person is hard. They always say that hate is a bad, negative feeling. But liking someone is way worse. It’s exhausting, annyoing and painful. Hating someone might be a little painful, but just because you feel the need to inflict said pain on the person you despise. You don’t feel it in your own body, in your damn stomach and your stupid heart.

„I have issues.“, I say. This sounds like a thirteen year old school girl who once got called a bad name and now believes she’s depressed. „That sounded fucking stupid.“

„What issues?“, he asks as if he takes me seriously after this.

„None of your business. I’m just saying that all of this is gonna end bad. I have a feeling it’s gonna end very, very bad.“

He doesn’t respond. I just hear him breathing.

„That was a bad idea.“, I say to myself.

„What? Spending the night with me? Calling me?“ He sounds concerned.

„Both of this.“ My entire stomach hurts, not just from the period cramps. Shit. Fucking shit. My head feels as if it’s gonna fucking explode. I squint and bite my lip and wait for him to say anything.

„Well“, he finally sighs. „I think I’ve had the worst idea of them all, though.“

„What do you mean?“

„Can you get up or does it hurt too bad?“

„I can get up, I think.“

„Go to your bedroom window then.“

Oh no. Don’t. He didn’t, did he? Shit. I feel sicker than ever, but I sit up and get up from bed. Slowly, with shaky knees and sweaty hands, I walk to the window.

„Throw eggs at me if you want me to leave. Or a used tampon if you like.“ He laughs and I can see it. I see his stupid fucking face right there, he’s standing on the goddamn street in front of my house, where he dropped me off last week. He’s smiling at me, staring into my eyes, and despite the distance the blue of his iris is clear to me. And horribly beautiful.

„I’m gonna puke on your head.“, I growl. Now that I see him there, I don’t want him to leave. I just wish he hadn’t shown up. This is corny to the bone and I, once again, feel a strange shiver coming over me. Mistrust. Fear? I don’t know. „Why did you have to come here?“

„I was outside anyway. Had to go pick some stuff up and I didn’t want to go by car. I thought I’d check on you. Are you gonna let me in?“ He’s wearing a beanie and sweatpants and he looks like the highschool heart throb I never dared talking to. „Morgan?“

I hang up and throw the phone on my bed. He shrugs and waves at me and I just flip him off and take a step back so he can’t see me anymore. I smile at the thought of him believing I really won’t let him in. How long is he gonna wait? Somehow I think he’d wait a long time. For me. Shit. I run my fingers through my hair and walk to the door, hestitating to push the little green button next that opens the front door. But then, I do. My hands are still shaking and I feel it getting worse when I hear him entering the staircase, supposedly climbing two stairs at once, in his overly expensive sneakers. Dylan always only wore Chucks.

He’s coming closer and closer and I lean my head against the door. What have I gotten myself into? No. What am I currently getting myself into? He knocks on my door and the vibration of the wood makes my brain buzz. I tilt back again and grab the doorknob. But before I open up, I peek through the spyhole, just to look at directly at his blushed face. He’s looking up at the ceiling, shifting from one foot to another. He looks cute and it makes me even sicker.

My hand turns the knob before I actually decide to. The door swings open. It’s weird how the entire atmosphere around me changes now that there’s no big wooden panel seperating him from me anymore. My mouth is dry, my body iswarm, too fucking warm for me. I can hear my hear beating like it’s going to burst out of my chest. I wish I wasn’t here.

This is one of those crazy moments of absolute absentmindness, a lot like the feeling you get when you look into a mirror and suddenly get overwhelmed with the fact that you are you. An actual being, in a world that functions, a world with orders, rules and laws, when actually, you’re just an ugly lump of flesh, bones and blood. And you’re trying to make the most of the life you never asked for, wondering what happens to the soul in your vessel once you die. Because you die in the end, you fucking die, and there’s absolutely no sense in the time before your death, but you still try to find it. Your entire existence is a fucking chase for something you feel close to in these fucked up moments, when you stare at yourself and barely remember your name because you just can’t believe that you really live, that you’re really there, in this very moment, in this place, with all these memories and scars from a past that matters too much to you to let go, but then you lose grip. The feeling fades and you close your eyes, come back from your trip to the land of a truth that you’ll never know and go on living your so called life.

Niall’s voice echoes in my dizzy head as he says Hello for a third time. „Are you okay?“

„I’m sorry.“, I say. „I’m not feeling well.“

„I can leave again if you really don’t want to see me.“, he offers. „But I brought you something you might want to have.“

He holds up a bag with the emblem of my favorite bakery on it and I swallow. He got me pastries. I can’t smile, I just shake my head in disbelief of his kindness and mumble weak words of thanks. He smirks and puts the bag in my hand.

„I didn’t know what you like so I got you a lot. There’s croissants and donuts and chocolate biscuits and cinnamon buns and even more.“ He shrugs like a shy little school boy and puts his hands in the pockets of his large, grey sweatpants.

I can’t fucking tell him to leave now. I don’t want him to leave. „Come in.“, I say and step to the side to let him pass.

„D’ya live on yer own?“, he asks. His accent showing doesn’t make breathing any easier for me. I nod as he turns to me.

„I’m not a chummy person.“, I say.

„Oh really?“, he asks ironically. „Doesn’t show at all.“

He wanders through my flat, invading my space, looking at the few movie posters I put up, scanning my shelves. My flat is small and kind of empty, he’s done exploring it soon. No boy except Dylan ever visited me here, and even he only came here to get the sweaters and CDs he lent me before he left me. I stand by the door and wait for him, not bothering to show him around. There’s not much to tell, not much to show, not much to talk about if it comes to this place. It’s my little hideaway.

„I like yer place.“ Niall finally says.

„Seen it all, yes?“

„I’m nosy.“

„Oh really?“, I mock him. „Doesn’t show at all.“

A bad cramp distracts me from his smug grin. I squint and convulse. Niall walks over to me and puts his hand on my back. His hand must weigh a thousand stones.

„You should lay down again. Eat the pastries I brought you.“, he whispers in a caring tone that makes his voice sound hoarse. „I’ll make you tea.“

„You don’t know where the teabags are and-“

„Won’t be hard to find.“

He acts like he’s been here a million times when he really just entered my flat about ten minutes ago.

I’m tired of fighting his kind offers. I nod and walk to my bedroom. I really have to get back to bed. Screw the shower. My damn uterus is eating itself.

Niall watches me through the half open door, making sure I really lay down. It’s weird and creepy but also kind of cute and I really don’t mind tea now. It’s crazy, unlike anything that would ever happen to me, but I’m too hurt to think right now, even if it bugs me.

I lay down and pull the blanket over my lower body, then open the bakery bag.

He really got my everything. I pick a chocolate chip cupcake and bite off a big chunk.

I hear the sound of clanking porcelain and boiling water in the kitchen. Knowing there’s a stranger touching and fidgetting with my stuff makes me nervous. I’ve always been a little paranoid and neurotic and remembering the feeling I got when I saw him on the street, it only gets worse.

I shove half of the cupcake in my mouth and try hard to keep myself from getting up again.I can’t ever relax.

Five minutes later, he comes into my bedroom. He smiles when he sees me in my bed, crosses the small room with two steps and asks if he can sit on the other bedside. I nod with my mouth full of dark chocolate and soft dough, wiping some crumbs from the corner of my mouth.

„Hold on.“, Niall says and reaches out to aid me. I flinch when he puts his finger where mine was, picking a chunk of chocolate off my skin and putting it into his mouth without hestitation. He smiles and mumbles: „Delicious.“

I don’t know how to react to this. That was a little intimidating, yet it felt good.

„I’m sorry.“, he says when he sees what the touch of his hand has, once again, done to me. „A bit too forward?“

„Your whole personality is a bit too forward.“, I joke to ease the tention.

He smiles. „Yours, too. But in another way.“

„I know.“, I respond.

We remain silent for a while and he watches me eat. I quietly offer him a cinnamon bun which he happily accepts and we sit there looking at each other with our mouths full of sweetness and my head full of thoughts I can’t finish to think. I can’t look away from his eyes and it obviously pleases him to see how he captures me.

„What did you pick up before you came here?“, I say, breaking the silence with the most irrelevant question ever. As if I cared.

„Um, just a bit-“ he stops.

„Drugs?“, I laugh and sweep crumbs off my bedsheets.

He blushes and my jaw drops open. „Really?“, I ask. „Drugs?“

„Weed.“, he responds. „Just weed.“

„Just weed.“, I repeat and roll my eyes. „That’s what it smelled like in your flat.“

He shrugs. „Do you mind?“

I don’t know. I never thought much about drugs, just wished for one that would cure my numbness. And one that would make it even worse and numb me completely. So I just shake my head and look out of the window, into the clear, blue sky. His eyes have exactly the same color.

„Does it hurt right now, Morgan?“, he wants to know. I shake my head again.

„I’m fine.“

„Good.“ He sounds actually concerned and I can’t help but smile at him. I surely look stupid. I never liked my smile. It never seemed real to me. Probably because forced smiles in front of the mirror are never real. But I’ve never seen myself smiling when I actually meant it. Like I do now. And why? Because of a stupid man sitting by my side, with cinnamon on his lips and strands of messy hair under a black beanie. A stupid man who decided to walk through town to get to me. A man who looks at me like old men look at young girls with bowties in their curly hair and says my name like a rune.

„How is it? Do you bleed, like, a lot?“, he asks.

„What?“ Why would he care about that? Maybe he just wants to talk and can’t think of a better topic than my bleeding vagina.

„Sorry.“, he quickly mutters. „I’m sorry.“

„Yeeees.“, I hestitantly answer. „It’s okay. To be honest, it really is a lot. It’s a filthy massacre. Like someone died in there. And it feels this way, too.“

„I’m deeply sorry. I hope you’ll get better quick.“

„Maybe the pastries your brought me will help.“ This time, my smile is fake. But he got kind of pale, obviosuly ashamed of his stupid question and for some reason, this doesn’t seem to go with the man he actually is, and that makes me uncomfortable. I want him to smile again, too, and when he sees me, his face really lightens up. Once again, a voice in my heavy head asks me what on earth I’m getting myself into, but another voice, a raspy, hoarse, angry one, shouts that it’s too late already. Hopefully not, a third voice whispers. The voice of mistrust.

„Maybe my presence helps, too, huh?“ He winks at me and gets up from the bed. „Mind if I open the window?“

„Uh-uh.“

„I like your flat.“

„You already said that.“

„I just don’t like the fact that you live on your own.“, he goes on, walking from one side of the room to another. „I don’t want you to be this lonely. I’m a little worried.“

„No need to feel this way.“, I soothe him. I like being alone. „I love being alone.“

„Nobody does.“

„You’re wrong. A lot of people like being alone. It’s just that most people can’t bear to be lonely. But being alone and being lonely are two completely different issues.“

Niall stops, looks at me and then, he nods. He takes the beanie off his head and runs his fingers through his hair. „Good point, Morgan. You’re right.“

„I know.“

There’s bird singing outside, the sound of cars driving by echoes from the outer walls of the house we’re in. I can hear the people in the flat next to mine talking, but when Niall asks the next question, everything goes quiet. I hear nothing but those three words.

„Are you lonely?“

His lower lip is shaking. He knows what a powerful question that was. He knows that no further question about my vagina or any other part of my body could invade and subdue me like this.

I wonder if he asked me for the sole appeal of mental dominance because he supposedly already knows my answer, or if he really cares.

I don’t hestitate to respond. „Yes.“. Clear, loud and confident. It’s obvious that I’m lonely. I just try to act like I don’t mind.

Niall keeps his eyes locked with mine as he nods and says: „Me too.“

I didn’t expect him to confess this to me but now that it’s out, it’s understood. A man that’s constantly surrounded by people, in a huge flat, with more money than he could ever spend. A man who falls asleep in another girl’s arms each night but never feels safe, no matter how tight they hold him. Thinking about these other girls, I remember that I’m actually sick.

I stare at Niall and see that saying this must have required all of his strength. He looks like a little boy that just told his mum he broke her dead aunt’s most expensive vase.

„I can imagine.“, I calmly say.

There’s a certain tension in my room now. Not just the wind coming through the window makes it colder by minute. I feel a cramp coming and put my hand on my stomach as if it could help.

„Oh shit.“, I hear Niall say before the pain overpowers me. I squirm. He walks over to me and takes my free hand. He leads it to his mouth and puts his careful, soft lips on my knuckles.

Nobody has caressed my body like this in a long time. I shiver. The pain fades and all I feel is his mouth still on my skin. He plants countless kisses all over the back of my hand, then each fingertip.

I watch him. His eyes are closed until he takes note of my staring. He smirks.

„Feels good?“

„Hmhm.“ I both want to pull my hand back and give him the right one to kiss, too. Or maybe lean forward and make him kiss me on the mouth. I haven’t kissed anyone in so long. And I can’t fucking help myself, I haven’t slept with anyone in a long, long, time too. And I miss it. Of course I do. And I want it. Despite the pain, despite the illogicality, I suddenly crave the body under his baggy clothes, I crave feeling his lips on other parts of me than my hand.

So, I better pull it back.

Niall is surprised and maybe a little disappointed. And I’m embarassed. I’m really lonely. So lonely that a plain kiss on my goddamn hand makes me think of sex.

„The tea’s getting cold.“, he says and points to the cup on my bedstand. I completely forgot. He made me my favorite tea without knowing. Raspberry vanilla flavor. I grab the cup and take a sip. It’s still lukewarm.

„Thanks again for making this.“

„Yer welcome.“, he mutters. Then, he closes his eyes, opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but closes it again. I can tell he’s trying to find the right words for something he doesn’t quite know how to put.

„What is it?“, I ask to help him a little.

„I feel like I owe you an apology.“, he sighs. „For what I said on the phone. You sounded so angry. I didn’t want to offend you. I’m just saying, if you ever want to talk to me-“

„It’s okay.“, I interrupt and reach out to put my hand on his arm. I can’t resists. I can feel him tense under my palm. Does he feel like I do when he he touches me? „The same applies to you.“

I just know that there’s more to him than the self absorbed fool of a millionaire he is on the outside. A worried little boy, a man that smiles too much and something darker. I’m torn. I both want to tell him to leave, because I feel like the darkness I sense is more than just daunting me a little, and wrap my arms around his neck, his fucking neck with these prominent veins, and tell him that he’s gonna be fine.

„Thank you.“, he mumbles. „I didn’t mean to make fun of you and your Daddy issues and-“

„I have more issues than the ones this sad apology of a father caused me.“, I groan and shrug. „I don’t mind anymore.“

I really don’t. My dad left me and my mother when I was seven years old. He’d had another family somewhere in Somerset the whole time through. He never harmed my mother and he treated me well, but he was a liar. I never expected anything from him. We spent little time together and except for this stupid song, I barely have any memories of him. Maybe that’s what makes it so hard. Maybe, if I could remember him or recall his face without having to look at one of the few photos I kept in the rare issue of ‘Jane Eyre’ my mother got me when I moved away, knowing I prefered Mr Rochester over all the corny Mr Darcys in the world, I wouldn’t feel like I was constantly waiting for something to happen. Maybe the return of my dad or a proper goodbye. Or for me to get over him and move on with life. Or, more particularly, start living.

„The past doesn’t matter.“, I add. „And I don’t want to bother you with all the crap on my mind.“

Niall swallows hard. Shit. His past does in fact, matter. But not to me.

„But you can.“, he offers. „Tell me everything.“

„Not now.“, I decline. „But you said you’ll get me to. Maybe you will, huh?“

He nods. „I sure as hell will. Not just ‘cause I’m nosy. I just really want to, I don’t know, help?“

„Well, I don’t need your help.“

„You come off so confident and strong.“ It’s a compliment, but there’s a hint of challenge in his tone. „I like that.“

„I like myself, too.“ I wink at him, definetely not in the mood to keep the serious conversation. „Even if-“, I add in a whiny tone, „my dad never did. How dare you making fun of my Daddy issues, you cruel man. You’re just like him!“

I’m joking, of course, and Niall laughs. It’s a good strategy, making fun of something that actually hurts you. That’s the key to coming off so confident and strong. I’m pathetic.

„All men are pigs!“, I yell. „You don’t know what those cramps feel like! And it’s all my daddy’s fault!“

„Ts, ts, ts. Poor girl.“, Niall says in a hoarse voice. As cold as it was a few moments ago, I now feel like I’m catching fire. „I’ll be your Daddy if you want me to. A good one. I’ll treat you right.“

Holy fucking shit. No. Niall crossed about sixty lines with only eight words and my body’s reaction to this subliminal offer makes me feel like a weak little girl who just found out where her clit is and how to touch it. I cross my legs beneath the blanket and watch the corners of Niall’s mouth curl up.

He knows what he just said and how he said it. And what it makes me think of. Again.

„I see you still like the dirty jokes you cracked last weekend.“, I whisper and shake my head. „And they’re still not funny.“

„Then why are you smiling?“

„I’m not smiling.“, I hiss, even if my face already hurts from trying so hard not to smile. What is it that makes me thruthfully happy when he’s around? I really wish I could remember the night we spent together. It’s been ages since I’ve felt this good and now I can’t recall it. My fate I guess.

„Yes, you are.“ He nods, then bursts out laughing. He pokes my side and I stop fighting my own emotions. There’re rare. I should give them space once they occur. But my body feels small next to Niall and I don’t know if I can contain all the things he makes me feel under the cold surface.

„I’m tired.“, I lie. „You bore me.“

He chuckles. „Don’t be so-“ He pinches my cheek, „cheeky.“

I turn my head and close to my eyes. I’m warm, but I feel like the blanket on my body provides a needed distance between my body and Niall’s.

„Do you want to sleep?“, he asks.

I nod, even if I can’t imagine to fall asleep as I’ve only woken up about two hours ago.

„Can I stay?“

„Yes.“ I kind of want him to. And somehow, I wish he’d just take my hand again. Kiss it once more, maybe. Oh shit, no. He’s so close to me, I can smell him. I can smell his shower gel and smoke, I can smell the sweat he tried to cover with an overly expensive deodorant.

„Do you mind if I, um, lay down, too?“, he goes on. Is he trying to find out how far he can go?

I’m both tempted to say no and yes. I open my eyes and turn to him again.

I inhale deeply and say: „I don’t mind.“

Niall opens his mouth, but he remains silent. He just proceeds to lay down next to me. He turns to the side and wraps his arm around my body in the blanket. He puts his hand on my lower stomach and rubs it through the fabric.

„Is that good?“, he whispers right into my ear. His warm breath tickles me. I can’t believe this is actually happening. What the fuck am I doing? I’m so fucking warm and his body only adds to it, but I wish he’d be even closer. I wish the blanket would be gone. And our clohtes, too.

„It’s very good.“, I mumble and unintentionally arch my spine to bring my lower back closer to his body.

„Maybe coming here wasn’t such a bad idea, huh?“

„There’ll be consequences, though.“, I whisper, bite my tongue and put my hand on his. I never expected a little move to be this exhausting. He’s spooning me and I feel almost safe. There’s still a voice in my head shouting at me, telling me to shove him off of me and save myself from him, but I’m not listening. All I hear, all I want to hear, for now, is his breath on my neck and the birds outside.

„I’m tired, too.“, he mutters, each word tickling my skin. Well, I’m not. „Morgan?“

„Yes?“

„Does it feel like we’re strangers to you?“

„No.“

„Am I too close to you?“

„Yes, but it’s alright.“

He plants a single kiss on my shoulder, pressing his body the blanket mine’s wrapped up in.

He waits until he asks me the last question and I know that the previous ones were just leading to this.

„Do I scare you?“

I nod before I say it.

„Yes.“

He holds his breath for a while, then kisses my neck again and starts rubbing my stomach in careful circles as he slowly drifts into sleep.

I stay awake and stare at the door, incapable of thinking straight. I didn’t care about anything a few weeks ago. All I wanted back then was to fill my stomach when it was empty, get back to my flat as quick as possible after one of the many partys I attended and then sleep. Sleep a lot. Now, I can’t.

I’m wide awake with a warm man’s body against mine, feeling like my bed is no longer like the coffin I made it when I buried me and my problems in it each night.

Now, I want things. I want to get up and never come back. Leave Niall in a flat that was mine before he invaded it. I want to stay in his arms forever, turn around, kiss him, bring him closer to me, even closer and then, a little closer. I want him to fuck me. Either passionate and slow, to ease my pain with a soothing orgasm, then harder than I’ve ever been fucked before. I bet he’s into that. I want to go back in time and not let him take me home. And go even further back and tell my thirteen year old self to stop crying because one day, she’ll be in bed with the most beautiful man in the whole, wide world.

Hours pass. I close my eyes, but I just won’t fall asleep. When Niall wakes up, he kisses me on the cheek. Dangerously close to my mouth.

„I’m still here.“, he whispers.

„Yes of course you are. Thought I’d carry you out the door?“, I chuckle, trying not to let sound that I spent the past hundred and eighty minutes worrying. „I can’t carry you. You’re too heavy.“

„That’s because muslces weigh more than fat.“

„Sure.“

„I’m happy.“, he suddenly says. „I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy.“

„Nice mantra.“, I respond.

„Mhm.“ He rolls to the side and gets up from the bed. „Can I use your bathroom?“

„Yeah, sure. You know where it is.“

He nods and rushes out of the room. The spot where he lay is still warm. I put my hand on the sheets. Even when he leaves, they’re gonna fucking smell like him.

He takes quite long in the bathroom. And he doesn’t flush. I doubt he really used the toilet. And when he comes back, his pupils seem glassy, his lips are red, cheeks flushed. His hair is a mess.

He looks at me and grins. „You’re beautiful as fuck.“

„Thanks.“, I mumble. You too, I want to respond. But that’s inappropriate, right? And what happened to his face? He didn’t snort a fucking line in my bathroom, did he? This can’t be.

What the fuck am I getting myself into?

„Are you feeling any better?“

„Haven’t had cramps since you fell asleep.“

„That’s because I rubbed your stomach.“ He taps himself on the shoulder and walks over to me. He bends over and strokes my forehead like I’m a little child. Then, he caresses my chin and softly puts the tip of his index finger on my lips. „I like your stomach. I like your lips, too.“

„Thanks.“, I repeat.

„I’m afraid I have to go now.“, he says. „Do you mind?“

„No.“, I say. He can’t stay forever. Maybe I should’ve told him to leave anyway. The assumption he did drugs in my flat would be enough of a reason to tell him to fuck off.

„Tell me if you want me to stay. I can cancel my plans for you.“

„No.“ I sit up in my bed. „I think it’s better if you leave.“

„Why?“

„Honest answer?“ This is going to cost me a lot of strength.

„Honest answer.“, he demands.

„If you stay, we’ll either get bored, get high together or fuck. I want neither of this.“ The last sentence was not quite honest. I want to fuck, and maybe get high. But I can tell what’s wrong and right. And I did enough wrong things today. Letting him in in first place was wrong. Even if nothing felt as good as his lips on me and his body against mine.

And I still hear these two words echoing in my head. „Me too.“ Fuck.

„Okay.“ He walks to the window bench where he left his beanie, puts it on his head and bends over to kiss me on the forehead, whispering „Goodbye.“

I watch him walk out the room, but he turns around before he actually leaves.

„I’m coming back and you know that, don’t you?“

„I know you will.“

„There’s no way you’ll get rid of me now.“

„Sure.“

He smiles, but I can tell the difference between a real smile and a fake one. Before he closes the door behind him, I remember the question he asked me before. With my hand on the warm spot at the other side of my bed, I hear his hoarse voice as if he was still with me. He hasn’t been gone for two minutes and I already miss him. But this question and my answer, lingering in the cool air of the room his presence changed, tortures me.

Do I scare you? Yes.


	6. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good girls ask for permission.

After the warm shower I should have taken in the morning already, I walk back into my bedroom with the towel wrapped around my body. As soon as I enter, Niall’s scent wafts in my nose. Jesus fucking christ on a stick. It’s like he’s still here.

I haven’t had any cramps since he left, but made a bloody mess in the bathroom. Still in my towel, I walk to my bedroom window and look outside, letting the cold evening air breeze through my wet hair. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m part manic, part down. I really need to make a new appointment with my therapist. But what do I tell her?

„Hey, I met a former member of this really famous group and he took me home into his huge ass flat and we did drugs and didn’t fuck and a week later he basically forced me to let him into my flat and we fell asleep together and didn’t fuck again but I think about fucking him a lot and also I don’t know why but I get weird psycho vibes from him and all in one I’m just absolutely swamped.“

That’s actually it. I could put it just like this. But I’d feel pathetic, more than I do already anyway.

I’ve really been thinking about fucking Niall ever since he came up with my daddy issues, and even earlier, well, basically from the moment I woke up in his bed on, and I’m both disgusted by myself and even more turned on by the idea of sleeping with someone I barely know, someone who should scare me off, even if I can’t explain what exactly it is that makes me shiver when he looks into my eyes for too long. Not just affection, that’s a fact.

As if he could read my mind from wherever he is, my phone vibrates and I pick it up from the bedstand to see I’ve recieved a text from Niall.

Niall - Missin me already? Xx

What a dork. Yes, I kind of do. Which is sad, because I probably just crave another person around so bad that it wouldn’t even matter if he was the bald, chubby guy who always waves at me from the bus stop or an old lady. Maybe I just needed to be held, touched and cared for so bad. I always feel like I’m better off on my own. And I guess I really am. I’m a loner, I’m fine with this. But right now, I’m like a stubborn child demanding another slice of cake. I didn’t have enough of the sweetness he was with his arms wrapped around me. I want more, more, more. Until I’m full and leave the kitchen to sleep in my bed all alone. But I know that this isn’t how it’s going to work with Niall. He comes off so clingy. And even if it would only be natural for him and men in general to realise I’m not worth their effort because I’m a fucking wreck and leave me again before things get too serious, I can’t stop asking myself about the future of whatever Niall and I now have. Maybe it’s nothing. But as I type „No“ and become aware of the lie I’m telling there, it feels like everything.

It only takes him a minute to text back.

Niall- Liar, liar pants on fire. I could tell you liked it when I lay there with you. We should do that again some time. I really enjoyed it x

Of course he did. I just wonder in which way. Did he enjoy it for the sake of a girl being so close to him, while he’s being all dominant with his arms around her achy body, only a few layers of cotton seperating his dick from her butt, a horny knight in shining armour? Or did he actually like sleeping next to me, like the little boy his face still reminds one of, all cuddly, warm and safe? Or, which would be the fucking worst, for both reasons?

Morgan - Then why did you leave? Got another date with another girl you can rub yourself against? Keep your x’s for yourself, Horan

I love degrading him like this. It makes me feel a whole lot more confident than I actually am.

And it’s so much fun. I realise I haven’t had as much fun in ages as well. I’m not bored. I’m excited.

His next reply only adds to this.

Niall - I don’t go on dates. Xxxxxxxxxxxx

I bite my lip as I type my answer.

Morgan – You just take them home, fuck them, cuddle a little, bring them pastries and maybe meet them for another fuck if you don’t find anyone better?

Niall – Sometimes.

Morgan- Asshole.

He’s just playing I guess. I hope. Why does the thought of him doing what he just claimed hurt me?

Am I fucking jealous? No, I don’t have a goddamn right to be jealous. That would be so dumb. Clingy. Immature. Naive. Stupid. Way too early. Way too fast. Way too instense.

Niall – Niall James Asshole Horan. That’s why they always called me ‘The Mean One’ in magazines.

Morgan- Can’t let go of the good old times, can you? Fyi, they mostly called you ‘The Cute One’. I don’t agree with that, though.

Niall – How’d you call me?

Morgan- The smelly one maybe. My entire room stinks of you. And weed. And your perfume. I bet it was more expensive than my whole furniture.

Niall – Could be. You should be happy my beautiful scent still lingers in the air of your tiny flat, ha! Bet you sniff your bedsheets wishing I’d be there xx

Morgan- You’re cocky as fuck without a single reason. You’re not that great.

Lie, lie, lie. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. We’re flirting, I know this, and I feel like I’m watching myself from another perspective. Trying to keep me from acting like a child, but also amused to see I do something that exciting, something so vivid, something that makes me… happy.

I drop the towel to the floor and sit down on my bed naked. It dawns outside. I can hear music from a distance. I really wish I could go out tonight, but something’s holding me back and it’s not the fear of my cramps coming back.

Niall – I take that as yes. Bedsheet sniffer. :**

Morgan- You wish! You’re so full of yourself! It’s disgusting! I’ll wash my bedsheets. Or burn them. I guess I’ll bleed on them again anyway.

Niall – Good. Send them to me then. ;))

Morgan- You’re gross as fuck. I’m gonna vomit on them, too.

Niall – Even better.

Morgan- Let’s stop this, shall we? Did you only text me to pull those jokes?

Niall- No, I just wanted to talk to you. Check on you, ask if you’re okay. I should have stayed I guess, but I really had something to do. And by something, I don’t mean a girl. Just to let you know.

Morgan- Do you think I care?

Niall – No.

I wait for a few minutes, wondering what I should say, when I recieve another text.

Niall – A part of me kind of wishes you did.

Morgan- The little boy in desperate need of attention wants to upset a girl because she didn’t fuck him right away?

Now that I said it, I realise that he never really made an attempt. If he really just wanted to have sex with me, he could have had it. I realise that I probably wouldn’t have said no. I would’ve muted the voices in my head that were trying so hard to warn me and let him have his way with me. I wouldn’t have felt as bad as I would if I slept with a random boy from a club. I never did that. It would have been different with Niall and I would have wanted it. Very bad, actually. Maybe I’ll get the chance. And then, we’ll be done. But honestly, if it would be about sex only, he wouldn’t have acted the way he did. He wouldn’t act the way he does now.

Niall – Do you think I’m some kind of sex maniac? Or do you just want me to fuck you so bad you keep dropping very pathetic hints?

I feel embarassed and exposed. Truth is, he’s right about both of his assumptions.

Morgan- I’m not going to give you the answer you wish for.

Niall – You just did, babygirl ;)

Oh my god. That hit a sore spot. Nobody ever called me this. Dylan’s nickname for me, honey, still makes me cringe. I fucking hate honey. I hate the taste, I hate the feeling of the sticky liquid on my lips, I fucking hate honey. But babygirl sounds so good to me. I can’t help myself. It’s not corny, it’s rather patronizing. And in a life where I always fought for myself, all alone, I suddenly feel drawn to the appeal of having someone taking a little care of me.

But why is this happening so quick? I never thought I’d want that. I never felt like I needed it. Maybe it’s just Niall. The glimpse I got of his personality. His smile, his weird sense of humor, his obnoxious laugh. The way he looked when he got out of the shower. The way he bit that fucking apple and how the juice dripped down his chin.

Maybe I’m just lonely. And maybe, my usual theory as to why I pull the crazy shit I do, why I’m such a psycho, why I keep waking up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, going from one panic attack to another, is because I’m bored. And I like the idea of having the adventure Niall promises with his big, veiny hands on my face and his warm breath tickling me, while his eyes are cold and dauting, glued to my body like I’m a bloody fucking steak.

For him, I don’t have to make up a fake identity. No French, no fake name. I’m not Lily or Vanessa, Angelique or Mary. For once in my life I feel like he’ll be okay with Morgan. Because I really, really, really want to get to know Niall. Not Niall Horan, former popstar. No. The weird guy who shows up at my house and supposedly does drugs in my bathroom. I know it’s wrong. And that’s what makes it just right for me. I feel like there’s a connection between the two of us. A dark wire, a bond made of white lies, a bitter truth and dreams we gave up on because we can’t live up to what we think of ourselves in our heads. We’re very different, but still the same. This is fucked up.

I put my phone to the side, tired of texting. I don’t know what to reply to him anymore anyway. Two minutes later, it starts vibrating again. And he’s calling me this time.

I stare at the screen and feel incapable of answering the call. My fingers move without my brain’s permission and I talk without wanting to.

„Why do you call me?“, I ask in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine at all.

„You wouldn’t text back.“, he says. Calmly, quiet, serious. He exhales and clears his throat and I picture him on his couch, smoking.

„I didn’t know what to say anymore. This entire texting thing is ridiculous.“, I sigh. „I’ve been over this since I turned sixteen.“

„You’re all grown up and mature, huh?“, he asks in a husky, playful voice. „Then why do you seem like a little girl to me?“

„Because you’re a sexist bastard, maybe?“

„Uh-uh. I highly respect women. I treat them very well.“ I can hear his dirty smirk and it makes me fucking sick. I wish I could see it, on the other hand I’m glad I don’t. „Make ‘em feel good, y’know?“

„You’re grossing me out, Niall.“

„I like the way you spell my name. Can you say it again?“, he demands, followed by a heavy sigh. I can almost smell the smoke through the phone.

„Fuck-tard.“, I slowly spell. „Or do you mean ass-hole? Id-iot?“

He chuckles. „No, Morgan. Say Niall.“

I give in. „Niall.“, I say. „Ni-all.“

He breathes in as if he enjoyed the sound of his own name as much as whatever he’s smoking. Well, maybe he does. His ego must be about twice as big as Russia.

„You want me to come over again?“, he then asks. What? No? Why would he leave and then come back only a few hours later? How come he’s so eager to see me?

„No.“, I quickly say. „No, you don’t have to. That would be kind of weird. I think I’m better off alone tonight.“

„That’s sad.“

„No, I’m used to it.“

„That’s makes it even sadder.“

„Don’t pity me.“, I groan. I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. „I’m alright.“

„That’s a lie.“

„Not a big one.“

We remain quiet for a while, the crackle of the line and his breath is the only thing I hear. I close my eyes and lay down, sinking into the matress. I sleep naked in summer sometimes and feeling the soft sheets on my naked skin reminds me of the reason why. I stretch and yawn.

„You still there?“, Niall asks. „What are you doing?“

„I finally took a shower and I was gonna get ready to go back to bed.“, I say. „Again.“

„I see. Are you in your pyjamas already?“

Hell no, please don’t let this lead to what I think it leads to.

„No.“, I honestly respond. Maybe it’ll be fun.

„Are you naked?“ He sounds cheeky, nosy and excited. I picture his round face, the stubbles on his flushed cheeks, his messy hair and the smug grin on his lips.

„Um, yeah.“, I drawl and giggle. I’ve never have phone sex or anything close to it before. When I grasp that I, in fact, have the chance to do it now, a feel a frisson coming over me, my entire body prickles and I cross my legs to keep the tickle where it feels the best.

Niall grumbles something incomprehensible, then says: „I wish I could see that.“

„Well, you won’t get to see it.“, I gloatingly whisper. All I care for is to see how far I can go. Not with him, but with myself. How far I can go until I have enough. Until I comprehend how fucked up this us. Until I’m fed up with acting this way. Until this goddamn tingle in my whole fucking body stops.

„Believe me, I will.“, he groans.

„And then?“, I giggle, feeling superior to him, but oppressed by my own feelings.

„I’ll use this body of yours for good. And you’ll love it.“

„You sound corny as fuck.“, I spite him. „I’m not into into this sappy, sugary sweet vanilla crap.“

He chuckles and I hear the hiss of his lighter. He coughs and grunts: „Well I didn’t want to be too straight forward. But I guess I should know by now. You don’t mind that.“

„By now! Sounds like we’ve known each other for ages.“, I laugh.

„It feels this way, doesn’t it?“

„Don’t be silly.“ He’s not being silly. He’s so right. But I don’t want to give in this time. Not to him. Not to the silent voices of sanity whispering to me to hang up and stop this bullshit.

„D-do you believe in soulmates and shit?“, Niall stammers.

„Niall, you’re high as fuck.“, I dryly respond.

„Shit, I love it when you say my name, Morgan. I fucking love it. So tell me, do you?“

„I don’t know. I think I do. My therap-“ I stop. Should I tell him about my therapist or not? I’ve learned that mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of and it’s obvious that I got problems, shit loads, but I hestitate to casually drop that I’m in therapy, too. Yet I feel like if there’s anyone who understands and doesn’t mind, it’s Niall. Not because he’s the carefree happy go lucky guy he was portrayed as, who wouldn’t judge anyone, but because I believe that he could relate. „My therapist told me a lot about, you know, relationships and stuff. Why people like each other. Why you feel drawn to a person.“

„Why do you feel drawn to me?“, Niall wants to know.

„How are you so sure I do?“

„I just know.“ His tone is cocky, his voice husky. I wish I could see him.

„Do you feel drawn to me?“, I ask. Suddenly, I get scared of his answer. But he quickly eases my abrupt worries.

„Yes.“, he answers. „I’m very attracted to you.“

Does he tell this to every girl before he gets to sleep with her? Why does this thought make me so anxious? I start stroking my thigh with my free hand, trying to soothe me a little.

„Are you?“ I just want to hear it again I guess. As if I could make sure he’s honest. I try to listen to all these voices in my head, to one in particular. The one that tells me if he’s lying or not. But for once, it’s all quiet in there. Just the sound of him smoking at the other end, just my heavy breathing.

„I am. Doesn’t it show? I’m usually bad at hiding this.“

„Usually, I see.“ Ouch. I feel like he just punched me in the stomach. So he does, in fact, use this on every girl.

„No, Morgan, hold on. You got me wrong. This may sound corny again, but I swear to, um, satan, I’ve never felt as attracted to anyone else before. I fucking want you. “

Oh my fucking goodness. I feel both sick and insanely happy. The pain from the verbal punch fades into icky, gross, unwanted and just vile butterflies.

„And I’m not just talking sex. I mean, dear god, I really wanna get to know you. And find out why you always pull a grumpy face. And what is it that makes you so damn interesting to me. Morgan, goddamnit. But, of course, I’m talking sex, too. I want to fuck you. And I’d fuck you so good. I’d fuck you like nobody’s ever fucked you before.“

This won’t be hard, considering I’ve only ever slept with Dylan. The prickle between my legs intensifies and I can’t keep my hand from slowly making its way from the inside of my thigh to my center. I slowly run my fingertips along my slit, shiver and, fucking hell, let out a quiet, but rapt moan.

„I heard that, Morgan. There’s two options.“, Niall says, his raspy voice waking me from my entrancement. „We either say goodnight and hang up, or you’ll make me give you permission to touch yourself so we can get off together. Considering that you didn’t want to get high and fuck and let me go home instead before, I’d very much prefer the second option.“

I swallow hard. My head feels hot and so does the rest of my body. I’m shaking, my heart is racing. I keep biting my lip to suppress a smile and also because I’m so fucking turned on by his voice. And what he just said. „Give me permission?“, I ask in a lower voice. „What if I’m already touching myself?“

„That would make you a very impatient, unbehaved and dirty girl.“

„Guess that’s what I am.“, I sigh. I made my decision. I’m not going to hang up. I’m going to do this.

The voices come back, yelling at me. But I ignore them. This is fun. It’s no actual sex. It’s made up. A fantasy coming to life, but not really. It’s okay. It feels good. I’m just not used to feeling anything like this. Anything good. I feel like a child watching an x rated movie under their blanket. Jumpy, mischievous, but happy. It’s a hint of my lonely nights at the club, a bit of a weird kind of freedom I never tried before and something I missed out on doing in the dark days of my teens.

„So you do? You’re touching yourself already?“, Niall wants to know.

„Mhm.“, I mumble, letting my hand wander from my center back up to my breasts, circling the tip of my index finger around my right nipple. I arch my back, it feels so fucking great. I barely ever get this aroused. I spread my legs, it feels like there’s a fire between them. I’m longing to be touched and I tease myself by keeping my hands off my center, enjoying how the yearning increases.

„And don’t you wish it was me?“, Niall asks.

„Yes.“, I say. „I do. I wish you’d be here.“

„I could come over. But I think this is more fun, isn’t it? You like being a tease. You provoke me on purpose.“ He chuckles darkly. „Do you wanna know something?“

„What?“

„I wanted to fuck you so bad the first time we met. But I’m a gentleman I guess. At least for you. And I knew you were different from the beginning on. So I kept my hands off of you. I could’ve fucked you today, too. You think I didn’t think about putting my hands a little lower than your stomach when he lay in your bed? God forbid the blanket hadn’t been there. I was so fucking hard for you.“

Oh my god. Under other circumstances, I’d be grossed out, maybe. But not now. Not at all. I want to hear more. I don’t want him to stop talking. And when he goes on, my heart skips a few beats.

„When I left for the toilet, what d’ya think I did, huh?“, he mutters under his breath.

„You didn’t.“

He burst out laughing. „I did.“

I join in and we both laugh so it hurts my ears. Once we’ve calmed down, I ask: „Are you touching yourself now, too?“

„I am.“, he replies. „And I’m hard again. That’s the impact you have on me, Morgan. I hope you’re proud of yourself.“

„For making a boy hard? It’s not that difficult, actually.“

„For making me hard.“

„Because you’re so special.“, I cackle. „You cocky little shit. And also, refering to what you asked me earlier. I do, in fact, think you’re a sex maniac. Maybe even a pervert.I mean, are you aware of what we’re doing?“

„Well I don’t know about you, but I’m planning on getting off. And I’ll make you cum with my voice and a little help of your imagination.“

„You’ll make me cum?“

„Mhm. I will.“

I picture him on his couch, his sweatpants pulled down a little so he can comfortably touch himself.

His shirt’s rucked up a little, his v lines show. His cheeks are flushed, his hair the usual mess. His mouth hangs open, its corners curled up. The TV is on, a lame movie, but it’s on mute. It’s the only light in his living room. I wish I could be with him. Sit on his lap, feel his mouth on mine. Feel him against and inside of me.

„Did you get off on me before?“, I ask.

„Yes.“

„How often?“

„Too many times. Each day since we met.“, he confesses. I shake my head and pinch my nipple. Sick of touching my upper body, I slide my hand down my stomach, stop and cup my center in its palm. I shiver and moan again, pressing my hand against my core and slowly grinding against it.

„Did you get off on me, babe?“, Niall wants to know.

„No.“, I reply. Even if I thought about sex with him, way too much, way too intense, I didn’t touch myself. I didn’t touch myself at all the whole week through, which makes me want it even more now.

„But you want me to fuck you, don’t you?“, he asks.

„I do.“

„Then be a good girl for me and put your hand where you wish mine was.“, he says.

„It’s already there.“, I giggle.

„Ts, ts, ts. Like I said. Impatient and dirty.“ His breathing gets a little heavier. I hear him inhaling through his teeth, hissing, quietly moaning. „Are you wet, babygirl?“

I slowly let my middle finger slip between my folds and feel the warmth. „Yes.“

„Wet for me, only?“

„Wet for you only.“

„Mhm.“ He groans. „I bet your pussy tastes like heaven, babe. Will you try it for me?“

Of course. Why not. The kinkier, the better. Sometimes, Dylan wouldn’t even kiss me after I gave him a blowjob. I don’t see a problem with body liquids and I always felt rejected when he turned his head.

I dip my fingtertip into my wetness and lead it to my mouth, sucking my juice off it. Smacking and swallowing hard, to let Niall hear I really do what he told me to.

„How is it? Do you like your own taste?“

„Mhm.“, I mumble. „It’s sweet, Niall. You’d love it.“

„I know I would. I’d eat your dripping little cunt up. But not for free. I’d make you suck me off first.“

I spread my folds with two fingers, torturing myself with not touching my clit already. I buck my hips as if there was anything to grind against there.

„Hands off of your pussy.“, Niall groans and I obey. I press my lips together and close my eyes. This is so hard.

„Picture me there with you, babe.“, he then says.. „I’m standing in front of you, about to you use your body.“

His breathing gets heavier. I’m still refusing to give in to myself. He instructed me.

„Niall, I want to touch myself again, please let me.“, I beg.

„You’re such a stubborn little girl, aren’t you?“ He chuckles darkly. „Always acting so independent and confident. And you’re smart. We talked about a lot of philosophic shit the night you stayed with me. But I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about stuffing that mouth of yours with my cock.“

„Oh god.“, I moan, arching my back again. I don’t even know why I do what he tells me, the sickest parts of me find great joy in obeying to him like this.

„You like that though, huh? I’m with you, babygirl. I’m making you get up and on your fours, then grab you by your hair to lead your pretty little doll face to my cock.“ His voice gets a little shaky and knowing he’s touching himself in this very minute, to the thought of me sucking him off, drives me insane. Knowing I’m wanted, knowing I’m desired, by someone I desire, too, seems to outweigh all the negativity I’ve felt towards myself in the past, at least in this moment. If only he was here with me. We’re like teenagers. He’s such a horny mess. I wish I could see him.

„I fuck your face, make you gag on my cock as I pull your hair, pet your head. I make you purr like a thirsty little kitty, craving my juice.“

Why is he teasing me like this? I’m shaking. I need to touch myself. I need to ease the burn between my legs, that already ache from being spread this far.

„Niall, please.“, I beg again.

„Shit I love it when yer saying my name. You wanna fuck yer pussy with yer liddle fingers, don’t ya? Imagening they were mine.“, he mutters, his accent coming through so thick. This only makes it worse, so much worse for me. He wouldn’t find out if I already gave in. He can’t see me. But I wish he did. Oh fuck, I wish he could watch me.

„Yes.“, I pant. „Yes I do. Give me permission?“

„Mhm.“, he groans. „I’m not sure. It’s so much fun to tantalize you, babe.“

„You’re such a bad boy, Niall.“, I say.

„You have no idea.“, he replies, sounding dark, daunting.

My entire body and even my twisted mind is yearning for him. It feels like I’m starving. I squirm in my sheets, unable to get the picture of him on his couch out of my head. I’m not even trying. It’s the best thing my sick brain came up with for a long time. I want Niall so fucking bad.

Subliminally, I get hit by the incredible truth. See myself from another angle, trying to realise what’s happening. I bite my lip and ask again. „Can I please touch myself now?“

„Maybe“, he dwells, „if you ask Daddy very nicely.“

Oh shit. He knows how to tease me. I don’t want to think about how it’s possible that he knows me so well after such a short time. Maybe it works on all women. I don’t know. I don’t care.

„Please“, I moan, „please Daddy, can I touch myself?“

„You can.“, he finally says and I immediately slide my fingers between my dripping folds, starting to rub my clit in circles whilst I slowly shove my middle finger deeper in, curling it so I can apply pressure to my g spot.

„Oh god.“, I sigh, relieved, in a hurry to catch up on what I missed by quickly increasing the pace of my fingertip on my clit.

„Is it good?“, Niall wants to know. „Does it feel good, babygirl? I’m with you. Making you lay on your bed again. I spread your legs with my hand and grab your hips. Lift them a little to make it easier for me to ravish you.“

„I want you so bad.“, I whimper. „I want you so fucking bad. You can have your way with me, I want you to use me.“

„Good girl.“, he groans. „I keep one hand around your throat to choke you while I shove my cock into your tight little cunt.“

„I’m so,-“, I pant, unable to finish my sentence. I’m quivering, squirming, pumping my fingers in and out. My head is spinning, all I want is for Niall to be here and fuck me like he says he would.

Just as if he could read my mind, he, out of breath just like me, in his thick accent again, asks: „D’ya want that, huh? D’ya want Daddy to fuck you? Use yer liddle body ‘nd leave yer pussy all sore?“

He can barely speak anymore. I know he’s close and so am I. So fucking close. And it all happens so quick.

„Y-yes.“, I cry out, fingering myself and grinding against my wrist as I arch my back and gasp for air.

„Tell me I own you.“, he demands.

„You own me, Daddy.“

„Fuck.“, he groans. „Fuck, Morgan, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum and I wish I could cum inside of you.“

„I’m s-so close too, Niall, I’m-“

That’s when my body tenses, my senses go numb, all I feel is the imcomparibly good burn between my legs, turning me into a mess of sweat and moans and pleasure. I don’t care if the neighbours hear. I cry out Niall’s name, I cuss, I gasp for breath.

I can hear Niall moaning at the other end of the line. He’s loud, too. Then, we go quiet. I slowly come down from my high, open my eyes and stare at the ceiling.

„Fuck.“, Niall sighs. „Fuck, Morgan, that was good. And I wasn’t even really fucking you. Can you imagine how good it will be when I do? And I promise I’ll do it soon. I promise I’ll fuck you. I can’t wait, babygirl. I can’t wait to fuck you.“

I’m incapable of saying anything else but „Yes, please“. I’m still shaking.

„I wish I could have been with you, babe. Will you go to sleep now?“, he asks.

„Yes, I guess I will.“, I quietly reply. „I’m tired.“

„Because of me.“

„Haha.“, I chuckle. „Not really.“

„I’ll be with you, soon, I promise.“, he mumbles. „I came on my couch, Morgan. Maybe you have to come over and clean it up for me. It’s your fault.“

„I’m not even sorry.“, I whisper. I turn to the side to turn off he light. I’ll sleep naked, I don’t care. I couldn’t care less about my usual patterns, I don’t feel like feeding the monster what’s left of my OCD can be.

„Next time I’ll cum on your face, that’ll make it easier for you to lick it up.“

„You’re gross as fuck, Niall. More than just a bad boy.“

„You have no idea.“, he repeats. „Not the slightest idea. Goodnight, babygirl.“

„Goodnight.“

____________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________________

The room is all quiet now that she hung up. He pulls his sweatpants up again, staring at the white stains on the cushion. He was so fucking turned on by the thought of fucking her. And hearing her voice at the other end of the line made it so hard for him not to cum right away. He’s got good control over his body, despite the drugs.

He gets up from the couch and walks to the window. He’s tempted to get out and drive to her place. Finish it. Fuck her. Own her. Own her like she said he does.

He can hear her voice, as if she’s standing in the middle of his dark living room now.

He clenches his fists.

He owns her. No, not yet. But he will. He has to. He fucking has to.

Putting his hands over his ears to mute the voices, he walks to the bathroom. One shot. He won’t get any sleep tonight anyway.


	7. Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One kind of pain drowns out the other. 
> 
> Can someone lost save you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of self harm.

It’s the silver hour before sunrise and I sit on cold floor, my aching arms tightly wrapped around my knees. I’m rocking back and forth, catching my breath after I chased it, just like my sanity, running for my life in my head, without moving. It seems the demons in me only waited, assembling their forces, to come back after a calm week with all their power. Stronger, greedier, mightier than before.

I woke up from a dream that involved Niall and for some reason, trying to hold on to the fading memories of the strange world I visited in my sleep, it were his blue eyes, whose reflection went like a bullet through my made up barricades. Right into the place where humans carry hearts, even if some of them don’t seem to, but demon’s nothing but black emptiness. And they get so mad under attack. So they fought it. They fought the hint of happiness Niall had blessed me with, like the dark angel he seems to be. And they fought so well.

I stumbled into the kitchen, thinking a glass of cool water could drown the arising anxiety, but I was wrong. I grabbed the tap and instead of cool water, I burnt my fingers under the boiling jet. I broke down by the sink, repeatedly telling myself to calm down, stay cool, breathe, breathe, count to ten, but there’s no way you can escape a force you carry within. And honestly, none of the methods my therapist told me about worked. When I feel a panic attack coming, I may drop anchor, but the storm and the waves will still bluster to make my ship keel over.

So I gave in and let it happen. Reminded myself that it will end, even if this might take some time, and blacked out, on the floor, in my own sweat, thinking of everything that scares me at once. From my unsure future to my own mother, to the days on which my reflection in the mirror makes me want to die, to dying without wanting to, or not dying when I wish I could. And in this black flood of fear, I saw him standing on the waterfront, watching me drown.

I don’t know how much time has passed, but somehow I managed to crawl back into my bedroom and finally come back to my wounded senses. I’m used to panic attacks, but this one came out of the blue of this lonely night, unexpected and so intense I’m still shaking.

There was a time when I felt so ashamed for letting my own brain enslave me like this, driving myself insane without a proper reason and getting physically sick from something that happens in my mind only, but it’s over. I’ve learned a lot of people suffer from anxiety, yet it didn’t make it any easier for me. I know I won’t be able to fall asleep again, but I’m exhausted, literally drained.

I could do with a smoke now, or with a bottle of Jack, I don’t know. Anything that numbs me in another way than my insanity taking over is good.

But I just can’t get up for now. I stay on the floor, staring at the wall in front of me, wishing I wasn’t alone by now.

I used to deal with this quite good. There was noone I wanted around anyway. But now I know exactly whose hand I want to hold to stay safe from the demons, and that hurts so much more than my blistered fingers.

__________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________

__________________________________________________________

„The best kind of love is tainted love.“, he says, lighting his blunt and sucking in the thick, sweet smoke. „And I’m not talking that Soft Cell song, neither Marilyn Manson’s even better cover or the embarassing shit the Pussycat Dolls pulled in 2005 or whenever they made that hideous plastic pop album that was basically just an excuse to make high quality videos of them shaking their tight little asses. No, no. I’m talking that kind of love that consumes you. Wrecks you. Fucks you. Destroys you to the bone.“

„You should write a song about that, mate.“, Zayn chuckles, blowing smoke rings. „Betcha if we sung about that back then, we wouldn’t have sold half of our records. And imagine how upset the parents would’ve been. Even more than they already were.”

Niall’s not in the mood for jokes. „Don’t you know what I’m talking about?“

„I guess I do.“ Zayn shrugs. „But it’s weird, you know, hearing that from your mouth. Kinda dark, I don’t know. In addition to these bags under your eyes. Kinda scary, mate.“

„Wasn’t it you who kept trying to provoke me to see if I can get a little scary?“, Niall asks, faking a smile. „You’ve always been the mysterious one, at least that’s what the press said.”

„You were just happy all the time.“, Zayn says. „Or at least you pretended. I just wanted to be let alone. I thought about leaving the band so often. But I just couldn’t, you know? And you were one of the main reasons. So you’re telling me now you’ve been lying all the time?“

„No, I wasn’t lying. Not exactly. I was happy. It was the best fucking time of my life. But it’s over now.“ Some years ago, those words had hurt him so bad he’d deny it. One Direction wasn’t just the band he was part of, it was his fucking cult, and he was the leader. And a huge, greedy ego like his couldn’t have been happier than in a crowd of screaming girls thirsting for his attention.

„You’re a wrecked shadow of what you used to be.“ Zayn’s trying to make it sound funny, but Niall nods his head without batting an eye. „But at least you’re in love.“

In love? As if.

Love had always mattered to him. Firstly, the love to his family and friends. He used to be a family man, homebound. He still calls his brother every week but the unexpected move of not moving and staying in London had impaired the bond between him and Mullingar quite a bit. After his parents died, he started to feel out of place where once was his home. Just like he’s sadly distant from his other family, the one he chose, the four boys he used to live this ultimate fantasy of a life with.

Home is wherever his heart is, but it’s been broken for years and the shards were spread all over the world. Some stuck in the flesh of the girls he had loved for a while, some got lost in the crowds of unfamilar faces he thought he loved so much, too, as he owed them his whole past and all the money, all the attention he secretly still loves so much. Some shards he left with Harry, Liam, Louis and the man in front of him, some scratched the surface of the old CDs. Some wait in his bed or swim in the drinks he gulps down night for night, some he injects with the occasional shots, or sniffes through his nose as if they could be put back together inside of him this way. There are still some left in his chest, a big one, where his heart should be, but ever since he met her, he feels the need to pull it out and, sharp edge first, shove it into her soft chest with bloody hands, because maybe, that would make her love him.

He was not in love, how could he be, after such a short time. But he was- and that was unusal for the Niall Zayn wished was with him now, but very likely for the Niall that was actually sitting there,- more obsessed with the idea of her being in love with him and driven crazy by the urge of making her his completely.

"I’m not in love.", he says and stretches.

"But you don’t just wanna shag her.", Zayn retorts.

"No, I don’t." Of course he does, but not only. For once, it’s not just about sex. Even though thinking of it now flusters him again.

"See, that’s how it started with Perrie and me. We just rushed into that somehow, it felt like fate. Maybe you get what you want this time."

"I always get what I want." Niall grins at Zayn, but he seems a little irritated.

"You’ll figure it all out.", he says and gets up from the couch. He always liked Niall the most out of the other four, enjoyed coming to his place from time to time, to smoke a few joints and watch football together. But with every time he came here, it felt stranger and stranger. There was no denying Niall changed, and the extent started to worry him a little.

Niall had always been a ladiesman, good at keeping quiet about his antics because he was raised well, but the dirty affairs he got incriminated in after One Direction weren’t venial anymore.

And he always liked to drink, but the scale of devastation had reached a distressing level. In addition to the drugs, Niall’s lifestyle, arisen from frustration, denial and pent-up anger, hadn’t left much of the happy go lucky irishman he’d been in his early twenties.

"I gotta go now.", Zayn says, looking down on Niall, who just nods.

"It was nice to see you again.", Niall mumbles and finally gets up from the couch to pull his friend into a short, cold hug. "Give Perrie and the kids my rewards, yeh?"

"Yeah. And you let me know if anything else happens with that girl, won’t you?"

Niall nods again and watches Zayn turn around and walk away to leave his flat. As soon as the door closes, he sinks into the couch again.

"Fuck.", he cusses. Maybe he shouldn’t have told him about Morgan. He didn’t give away much, he just said he spent some time with a nice girl he met in a club, someone who seemed to be a different most girls, someone who was breathtakingly beautiful. Zayn smiled, he could relate. He didn’t understand that whatever started with Niall and Morgan was unlike what Zayn and Perrie had.

Zayn was probably just happy imagening Niall finally found a reason to be truly happy again. What a fool. Morgan made Niall feel a lot. A lot of good things, yes, but not true happiness, or, more particularly, no pure, honest happiness.

Niall looks at his watch. It’s almost 11 pm. Exactly a day since he left her flat. He texted her this morning, but she didn’t reply.

He grabs his phone and dials her number. No time to go through his contacts. He already knows her number by heart.

He waits. The hooting sound of the dial tone makes his ears hurt. He’s stoned as fuck and finds it slightly amusing. He’s used to the high consumption of weed, but sometimes it still gets to him.

"Hello?", he then hears her saying as she picks up the phone. "Niall? Why are you calling me?"

"You didn’t reply to my text.", he answers in a low voice.

"So? I’m not feeling good today, I mean, I, I just forgot."

He can tell something’s wrong. She sounds like she’s been crying. Immediately alarmed, he leans forward, clenching his fist. “What happened?”

"No-nothing, I’m okay, I just-"

"You lie to me."

He’s a good liar. She’s a good liar, too, but only if it comes to white lies, little lies, silly lies. She can’t lie to him. He can sense that she’s not telling the truth. She is not okay.

"You sound like you’re crying, Morgan. Don’t lie to me.", he repeats.

"It’s none of your business.", she quickly responses. "I am okay, I told you I’m okay."

"I’ll come over."

"No, you don’t." She sounds offended. And a part of him, the small, sane part, knows why. He hassles her. But he just can’t help himself. He wants to be close to her. And she needs him. She’s not aware of it yet, but she does. She needs him and he needs her.

"I’ll take care of you like I did yesterday. You know I’m good at this, whatever happend. I’ll take good care of you."

"Well, I don’t want you to take care of me. Listen, I really enjoyed your company and I enjoyed the phone sex, but you can’t help me right now." He can hear she’s close to crying again. Then, in a voice so quiet and weak it doesn’t seem like the Morgan he got to know at all, she adds: "Nobody can."

That’s enough. She can fight it, she can keep on saying no, but he’ll put on his shoes and get to hers as quick as possible.

"I beg to differ. Whatever it is, I’ll find a way to make you feel better."

"I don’t want to fuck.", she sighs.

Is that what she thinks he wants to do? Just fuck her? He chuckles, but covers his mouth with his hand not to make her hear he laughs in this very inappropriate situation.

"I’m not gonna fuck you without your permission, babe.", he says. Then, he hangs up.

He rushes to the bedroom, changing into a shirt that doesn’t smell of weed too much. He looks a mess, but for once he doesn’t really care about his reflection. He puts on his shoes and locks the door. He’s no good for her, but he’ll save and protect her from every other thing that endangers her.

The town is blurry through his tired eyes. He drives too fast, doesn’t focus on the traffic at all. He also doesn’t mind. He reaches her house and presses his thumb on the doorbell. No response.

Did she see him coming?

He steps back to look up at her window. The lights are out. Suddenly, the front door swings open. An older lady walks out, carrying a small, ugly dog. It has to be fate. He takes a step back to let her out and grabs the doorknob to keep it from closing again.

"Wanna visit someone, my dear chap? You’re late.", the old woman asks. Nosy as most elderly people. Niall just nods.

"I hope it’s the girl who lives on the top floor. She could do with a handsome man like you, grumpy and unfriendly as she is.", the woman adds.

Niall can’t keep himself from smiling, but he turns his head not to let the woman see it.

Then, he climbs the stairs, taking two at once. He reaches the door to Morgan’s flat and bangs his fist on the wood, regardless of the people in the other flats.

"Morgan?", he yells. "Open up. Don’t play me, I know you saw me."

Well, maybe she didn’t. But it seems like her to ignore him like that, doesn’t it? That’s what drives him so mad about her. He can’t really see through her completely. There’s so much more to her and he feels like coming here now gets him closer to finding it out, but she likes acting all hard to get, that little rascal. More than that, she seems to feel the need to hide something from him.

"Morgan!", he repeats. "Open up."

"What the fuck Niall?", he hears her voice from inside the flat. Then, she opens the door. Before he knows what’s happening, she grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him in.

"Who do you think you are?", she hisses.

"I’m Niall Horan and-"

"This is not the time for jokes!", she grunts, shoving him against the wall of her narrow hall. "I’m mad as fuck! You’re waking up the others! Have you looked at the clock? Fuck you!"

She looks so fucking beautiful. Her dark hair’s tangled up in a messy bun and she seems to disappear in the much too large Black Sabbath sweater wears, even if her curves show. She seems pale and her eyes are swollen. She definetely cried.

She slams the door and walks away, letting him stand in the hall. She goes into the kitchen, which is also her living room. He waits, takes a deep breath, and follows her. She’s sitting the table, holding a cup of tea in her sleeve covered hands.

"Why have you been crying?", he asks, leaning in the doorframe.

"I haven’t been crying.", she lies.

"Don’t fucking lie to me." He sounds a little too grim. She turns to him, shaking her head.

"Why are you here? I told you I don’t want to see you.", she asks, trying to distract him.

"I thought you need me.", he honestly replies and walks over to the table.

"Well, I don’t. You’re silly thinking I do.", she chuckles.

"You’re silly thinking you don’t need me, too.", he responses and sits down on the free chair in front of her.

"What the fuck, Niall? What do you think you’re doing? You’re making a huge fucking fool out of yourself. Coming here for no reason, calling me just because I don’t text you back. Don’t you think you rush things a little? You don’t even know me. I don’t really know you. I only know what I read in those dumb fucking magazines when I was a whiny little teenage girl. And those were mostly lies, I guess. None of the articles said you’re a fucking stalker."

She sounds really mad, a little scared, maybe. She wipes her eyes as if she was afraid she’d tear up again.

He doesn’t know what to reply and just reaches out to take her hand, but she pulls it back, flinching as if he gave her an electric shock.

"Why did you cry?", he asks after a while, ignoring what she said.

"I’m not feeling well.", she sighs. Is she giving in, finally? He just wants to know what worries her. Is it him? Is he overwhelmed with his effort? He’d slow down if she wants it. If he can.

"What’s wrong?", he goes on. "You can tell me. You can tell me everything. I’ll keep it to myself. I won’t tell anyone."

"Niall, even if you told someone, nobody fucking knows me. Nobody fucking cares."

She sounds as if that didn’t bother her at all and that hurts him. Because he knows exactly how it feels. How it feels to finally accept the fact that nothing matters, that you don’t matter. That there’s no reason to keep dwelling on the illusion of being important to this world. Sooner or later, you’ll be buried under it’s surface anyway. But if there’s someone, even if only a single person, you can be important to, there’s a certain value in your useless existence. And he despises himself for thinking this, but he wants to be that value to her. She could be his.

"I care.", he says. Once again, he reaches for her hand and this time, she doesn’t pull it back. They just sit there, holding hands, looking at each other. She seems annoyed, but too exerted to fight him any longer. He just looks at her like miners look at the sun or predators look at fresh meat.

Then, he feels something sticky on his fingers around her wrist. He puts his free hand where the other one is to look at what’s been dripping on his fingertips.

"Don’t.", Morgan begs in a shaky voice, but he already saw the blood.

"Morgan, what the fuck is that?", he asks. A dangerous kind of excitement kicks in like those pills he swallows on club weekends. He grabs her arm with both hands, shoving the fabric of the sweater back to look at her skin.

Deep, gaping cuts, all over her underarm. The blood’s almost dry, just a few cuts still leak.

"No. No. No. No.", he repeatedly mumbles. He gasps for breath. His heart beats up to his throat, his head is hot and dizzy.

She tries to shake his tight grip off her, but he doesn’t let go. She even user her other hand to hit him on the fingers, but he’s motionless. He just stares at her cuts, hoping the jar of seeing this outweighs the thirsty animal that woke at the sight of the deep red juice. He feels like a fucking vampire, yet living with a blood kink is comparatively easy concerning all the other things that set his fucked up mind on fire.

"Niall. Let. Me. Go.", she demands, but he can’t.

"Wh-why did you do that?", he asks. "What happened? What made you want to hurt yourself, Morgan, what happened?"

She opens her mouth but before she can say anything, her glassy eyes fill with tears and she breaks into a convulsive sobbing. Niall never knew how to deal with crying people, but now, for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel confused or repulsed. He finally lets go of her, gets up from his chair and walks around the small table to wrap his arms around Morgan. He pulls her on her feet to make her stand. He puts his head on her, patronizing, trying to make her feel safe, and closes his eyes as she soaks his shirt with salty tears.

"I-I", she blubbers out, "I haven’t cut in years, I’m over it. And I won’t do it again, but I just- I don’t know what’s happening to me. I had a panic attack tonight. And four more through th-the day. I-I-I was gonna see my therapist b-but she’s ou-out of town and I usually don’t d-depend on her like tha-that, but, I-I felt so weird and I just h-had these thoughts and I couldn’t, I couldn’t f-fight them anymore, I- I- I just sn-sna-snapped."

"It’s okay babygirl.", he whispers, stroking her head. "I got you. I got you, babygirl."

He never held anyone like this. And the way she brushes her shaky body against his makes him wonder if anyone ever held her like this before, too.

He starts humming the first song that comes on to his mind, thinking of how his mother soothed him when he was a child. It probably doesn’t suit, but it’s been playing in his head the entire day through.

She’s digging her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him like she’d fall if she let go.

"What song is this? W-will you sing for me?", she quietly asks.

He stops humming and sings out the words to the sad, but beautiful song. Silent, in a low voice, he sings into her hair.

"I leave my memoirs in blood on the wall and my fears with the nurse on the stairs, I’m only going where you go someday, so don’t say rest in peace in your prayers."

"This isn’t very uplifting.", she chuckles between two sobs. "This is horrible. But it’s a b-beautiful song, Niall."

"Fate always loses hold", he sings on, "like electric sparks in my heart. Fate always loses hold, now be a good girl and do what you’re told. I hope you remember me, I hope you-"

He can’t go on. She lifted her head from his chest and tilted back, only to grab his face and pull him into a hard, wet, salty kiss. She doesn’t breathe, her body’s tense. He can hear her heart racing. He responds to her kiss by pulling her even closer, wrapping his arms around her so tight it might hurt.

She doesn’t take her lips off his. Her kiss is so greedy, so desperate. And he knows he’s her only solace. The only light in the darkness she carries within.

But how can he be her saviour when he knows she’ll have to be saved from him sooner or later?

____________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________

"Fuck!" I tilt back, stumble away from him. What on earth am I doing?

"What your heart told you to." That’s what my therapist would say. But I forgot how to listen to my heart. The voices in my head were my only guide.

"I shouldn’t have done that.", I say, close to bursting into tears again. I’m crying in front of him, showing weakness. He doesn’t only suspect me to be weak. He saw the cuts. Caught me in my most sensitive moment of absolute despair. He’s either my saviour. Or my downfall.

"Yes, you should.", he responds in a steady tone. Even now, he’s so sure of himself. "Come back.", he whispers and pulls me into his arms again. His lips on mine remind me of a gag in my mouth, but he tastes so good. And I need to feel him this close. I forgot that rocks in the black ocean must not crush my ship. Some of them might be a safe spot for me to crawl on.

He holds me so tight I can barely breathe, but it’s more than just alright. It’s the best and most intensive thing I can feel right now. The burn of the cuts on my arm fades into a prickle on my skin. I feel like I’m falling apart in his grip, but he’s there to keep the parts of me together. I want him to hold me. I need him to hold me. I forgot that maybe, I need someone, too.

After the song he sung to me, the next melody that comes on to my mind is the part of ‘November Rain’ I usually skipped to because I hated the slow part.

Don’t you think that you need somebody?

Don’t you think that you need someone?

Everybody needs somebody,

you’re not the only one.

Fuck this shit. Fuck this corny ass shit. I open my mouth and part his lips with my tongue. He lets me slide it in between his teeth, chuckling in the back of his throat.

But then, he turns his head, interrupting the kiss. Didn’t he like it? He smiles, his cheeks are flushed.

"You’re a greedy little girl.", he whispers. "But I know what’s better than licking the insides of our mouths."

He’s not talking sex, is he? Please. I don’t want to sleep with him now.

"Come.", he says. I trust him. I have to. At least for now. It’s hard to let him take my hand and lead me through my own flat that suddenly doesn’t seem like mine anymore. It’s just the way he is. He enters a room and it becomes his. His aura fills the space around him.

He leads me to my small bathroom. He turns on the lights and I squint. My eyes hurt from crying and his are wide and red from smoking. He makes me sit on the toilet lid and walks to my tub to draw a bath for me.

While the warm water flows into the bathtub, fogging the mirror above the sink, he leans against the tiled wall and looks at me.

For a split second, I wonder if I’m dreaming. Caught in this small room, no window, no fresh air, with this man, who suddenly seems so beautiful to me it makes my stomach hurt. Me. Glad he came over. So glad I’m ashamed. I want to roll down the sleeves again, but he shakes his head.

"Come here.", he mumbles and takes my hand to make me get up.He grabs a soft towel from the shelf next to the tub and wettens it in the sink.

"This is gonna burn a little.", he warns me before he puts the fabric on the first cut. I flinch and hiss, it hurts like hell. But not as much as dragging the fucking blade across the skin.

I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to. I was crying when I did it, I felt so ashamed. But I couldn’t take it anymore. You ignore your dog and it will start barking at you. It will come to you, nudge you, groan a little. It will piss on your floor if you don’t let it out and maybe, eventually, it will get mad at you. It will hate you for once taking care and now acting as if it wasn’t there anymore.

This is what it felt like with my illness. I was lost in the numbness, feeling nothing but boredom and disgust towards the people around me. Wanting nothing but to forget about the pain under the surface, dancing it away, drowning it in liquor. But then, I met Niall. And he made me feel again. So sudden, so intense, it teared down my walls, ripped open scars. And every thought of him, good or bad, was salt on the achy, bloody wounds.

I was weak after those inexplicable panic attacks and I started thinking too much. I looked into the mirror and felt so much hate, so close to the hate that almost killed my younger self, that I saw no other option but trying to outweigh the mental pain with actual, physical pain.

When I saw the cuts, I felt so ashamed. Like a stupid, little child. They joke about cutting everywhere. I felt like a joke. And nobody fucking knew, nobody cared.

When Niall offered to come over, I got so afraid.

But there he was. So serious. So present, despise his drugged state. He made me feel important.

I was important. Those cuts were important. He took care of them, softly cleaning them with the towel.

"I hope they heal quick.", he says. "I’m so sorry."

"It’s my own fault.", I dryly responds. The hot water running into the tub turns the water into a sauna.

"Uh-uh." He shakes his head and turns around to look into my eyes. "It’s not your fault. We’re not responsible for what the voices in our head tell us to do. I didn’t choose any of this either."

"What do you mean?", I ask.

What is he talking about? Is he going to confess anything to me? I hold my breath, trying to brace myself for whatever’s coming. It’s not like I don’t know that there’s anything wrong with him. He scares me. That’s a fact. And a part of my brain already knows something the other parts can’t cope with, let alone understand yet.

"I obviously have some problems, too.", he chuckles. He’s done cleaning my cuts and puts the towel away again. "I think you can tell."

"I do." I nod. "But what exactly?"

"I get aggressive sometimes.", he replies.

"Niall.", I sigh. Is that some sexual innuendo again? "Please."

"Not this way. Well, this way, too. But in general. I get upset easily. I can’t deal with life when I’m sober. I’m a drug addict." He turns away, not letting go of my arm though. "And sometimes I cry over One Direction. Haha."

I’d laugh, but he confides in me. He’s serious about all of this. I reach out for his face and stroke his cheek. How can a man like him seem so vulnerable all of sudden?

I realise we’re both hurt. More than we ever admit. Maybe I’m the first he talks about his problems to. He’s the first I talk to about mine, besides my therapist.

"I have a panic disorder. I used to be bipolar, but I’m a little better now. My OCD used to be a lot worse, too, but without the full extent of my sickness, I feel empty.", I explain. "I kind of hate myself, yet look down on others. I’m narcisstic, but self destructive. I’m careless and numb."

"Don’t hate yourself, Morgan.", Niall says leads my arm to his mouth to plant a kiss on each cut. My throat tightens, I feel tears streaming down my face. I can’t remember being treated with such fondness ever in my life before. How the fuck do I deserve that?

"Niall, I-" I don’t know what I was going to say. I just wanted to pronounce his name, knowing he likes it.

"Take off your clothes.", he then says. The bath tub is full. He puts out the water and pours some of my coconut scented bathing salt in it.

I hestitate, but then proceed to pull my sweater over my head. I couldn’t feel more naked in front of him anyway. After confiding in him, I’ve made myself more vulnerable than the sight of my plain anatomy could make me. I’m flawed, but used to the disgust I sometimes feel towards the reflection if my nudity. I just know that if I lost the pounds I wish I lost, I’d slip into bulimia again and I’m eased to be over that. And all the scars on my skin are the results of something Niall just said I can’t control. Not my fault. I’m reminding myself of all the excuses for why I don’t look as beautiful as other girls when I’m naked, not to lose my sudden backbone.

Niall watches me. His wide eyes are glued to my face first, then wander down, scanning my breats, then stomach. I look at him as I pull down my leggins and panties at once.

I know he saw many other girls like this before. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.

He looks at my lower stomach, his eyes flick my center, scans my legs. He smiles. Not amused, not cocky. This is the first pure, honest smile I see on his flushed face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was awed. Pleased. I take off my bra and he looks at my bare breasts. His jaw drops a slight, little bit, but he presses his lips together again. He looks into my eyes and I inhale deeply.

Neither of us moves. We just stand in the small bathroom, looking at each other. And even if he’s clothed, it’s like he’s naked, too. He told me about something he kept to himself for way too long it seems. We’re both vulnerable. But we’re not going to hurt each other tonight.

"You are beautiful, Morgan.", he then says. "Your body is the most perfect thing I have ever seen."

I would’ve laughed at this if it wouldn’t hit my sore spot, if it wouldn’t touch the sad little girl in me that wants nothing more than to look pretty for this boy, so that he wants me. As much as she wants him. As much as I want him.

Should I thank him?

Before I know how to put how his words made me feel, he takes a step forward and kisses my forehead. He could touch me, I wouldn’t fight it. But he keeps his hands off my naked body.

"Get into the tub, I’ll wash you.", he whispers.

I do what I’m told. My heart is beating fast, but I’m calm and quiet as I sit down in the hot water, sinking into the foam. I clench my knees and close my eyes. Niall sits down on the tub’s edge and dips his hand into the water.

Everything around is silent and so serene.

Niall runs his fingers down my spine, drawing circles on my wet skin. He grabs my sponge and soaks it with water, then softly rubs my back with it.

"Does that feel good?", he asks.

"Yes.", I answer.

"Lean back, I’ll wash yer hair.", he mumbles, loosening my bun and stroking my hair as soon as it’s down. I sink back into the warmth. I open my eyes underwater, they couldn’t possibly burn more anyway, and see Niall through the foam.

And then I realise I’m not lonely anymore.

I get up again, the wet hair sticks to my back. Niall applies shampoo on it and starts massaging my head with his fingertips, easing a headache I haven’t even noticed before.

"Is that good?", he wants to know again.

"Yes, it feels very good. You make me feel very good, Niall."

He sighs and it sounds a little helpless. When he’s done, I rinse the shampoo out of my hair and he just strokes my back and sings to me until the water gets cold. Then, he helps me get up and wraps me into my biggest towel, kissing my forehead as he lifts me in his arms to help me out of the tub.

When he puts me down, he asks: “Do the cuts still hurt?”

And I honestly say that they don’t.

"You know I’ll stay the night, don’t you? I’m not leaving you alone, Morgan. Even though I should. Maybe I shouldn’t have saved you from the guy in the club in first place."

What the fuck is he talking about? I feel an ache in my chest and lean against him as if this would make the sudden pain go away. “Why, Niall?”

"I don’t know. I’m just scared."

"You were the one asking me if I was scared. Of you.", I remind him.

"And you should.", he whispers.

"I don’t mind any of the things you told me.", I reply. "I’m broken, too."

"We can’t put each other back together.", Niall mumbles.

"No, but I don’t care."

"You’re a stupid little girl, Morgan. You have no idea where we’ll end up. I’m so sorry."

I’m sick of his big words and mute him with a kiss. I just want to be okay.

"Come here.", he says and lifts me off my feet again. I want to tell him I’m too heavy, but I feel like light and breakable in his arms.

He carries me to my dark bedroom and puts me down in my bed. “I’ll sing you to sleep if you want to.”

I take off the towel and let him put the blanket over my naked body. He sits down by my side and waits for my answer.

"Of course I want that.", I whisper.

"What do you want to hear?", he asks.

Remembering the fucking lines of November Rain that echoed in my head before, I say: “Anything from Guns ‘n Roses, maybe?”

He nods and starts singing.

"Talk to me softly, there is something in your eyes,-", he begins.

I listen to his hoarse voice as I drift into sleep, knowing I won’t dream nor wake up in the middle of the night because I am not lonely. I am not lonely. I am not lonely.

Don’t hang your head in sorrow,

and please don’t cry

I know how you feel inside,

I’ve been there before

Something is changing inside you

and don’t you know?


	8. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you addicted or just greedy?

It’s warm, too warm, but I like it. I feel like I’m melting into my bedsheets, my duvet’s glued to my naked body. The room’s flooded with bright light. A beautiful spring day outside, desert heat in my room. I can’t move, I don’t want to. Niall’s heavy arm lies on my chest, his cheek is pressed against my shoulder. He mumbles something I can’t understand. He’s been talking in his sleep all night long. I look at him and feel a pang in my stomach. His body so close to mine, his breath is tickling my skin. Not only is it overwhelming to wake up next to a boy after such a long time again, no, it’s also the sole sight of his face, Niall’s face, his twitching lids, his parted lips. He is s beautiful.

So calm, so vulnerable for once. He’s like a child, holding on to me, and I deeply wish I’d knew what he’s dreaming of.

I can’t remember what haunted my broken mind tonight, but I doubt it’s been a nightmare. He kept me safe, strenghtened me by caressing my weak body and easing my worried soul with songs I’ve heard before, but never like he sung them. Now it seems we swapped roles. Fallen asleep as my protector, he’ll wake up clinging to me, the girl he saved the night before. The girl he went to look after, the girl he drove through the whole town for in the darkness. What and who am I to him?

I want to know, but I don’t want to ask him. I wish I could see myself through his eyes. I wonder if he’d like to see himself through mine, too. What would he see? What and who was he to me?

He’s the stranger I feel like I know, not just because I’ve once had his poster on my wall. It’s clear he doesn’t mind that we haven’t spent much time together and it confuses me. He is the man who kissed my scars, even if there’s something to him that might injure me, too, which also confuses me. Everything confuses me. By now, besides the lasting disbelief, worries and the subliminal fear, all I know is that he is the boy I’d fall in love with if I could.

And that’s both painful and surprisingly exciting. I feel. Everything. All at once. But also nothing, except for him. Right now. Here, with me. And that’s all that matters.

I can’t take my eyes off him, can’t keep my fingers from running through his hair. I want so many thinsgs at once, kiss him, pull him closer. I want him to wake up but also remain like this forever.

Yet I feel like I shouldn’t be wishing for anything else but this very moment to last. Because it’s pure bliss. And I forgot what that feels like. I probably never felt like this in my whole life.

I don’t know how much times passes, but then, Niall’s lids start twitching, he squints, closes his mouth and slowly opens his eyes. He looks at me directly, I watch his iris focus on mine.

"F-fuck.", he groans in a low voice. "Fuck."

"Good morning to you, too.", I groan. He just grins and takes his arm off my chest, scooting away from me. I realise I’m not only covered in my own sweat, but his too. In fact, he literally soaked my duvets.

"I’m sorry.", he says, thinking I’m grossed out. I’m not. I just wonder what’s wrong. "I get warm at night, it’s just,-"

"The drugs.", I assume.

Of course. Fucking hell. I don’t want to think about the extent of his addiction now, but I know that at some point, I’ll have to. If he doesn’t leave me after this, and of course, my doubtful self fears losing him each second even if I don’t even have him really, I’ll probably have to talk about it with him, too. I don’t know how. I feel like a hypocrite trying to talk give good advice to an addict when I’m one myself. My drugs aren’t sold by strange men with bitter faces in dark alleys. No, for me, those lie within my soul. No pills, but toxic thoughts. No yearnings, but self destructive urges. Without a chemical cause. Just a fucked brain that fucked up the body it’s in.

Niall nods, half ashamed, half amused. “Seems like you have to change your bedsheets every damn day, huh?”

He presses his lips on mine in a sloppy kiss and my body incontrollably responses by scooting closer to him again. I wrap my arms around him, longing for him to be as close as he was the whole night through. He smiles. Fuck this. He looks like a fucking god.

He bites my lower lip, sliding his tongue in my mouth, still grinning like a cheeky little boy. “I could do with a smoke.”, he mumbles between two kisses. “A fat blunt for breakfast.”

"Ni,-", I begin.

"Shhh.", he hushes me. "There’s something I crave more."

Oh lord. His hand wanders down my back and as he digs his fingers into the nude flesh of my butt, he forcefully pulls me even closer, making his crotch meet mine. Shit. He’s wearing tight boxers and I can feel his cock through the fabric. I put my leg on his hip, wrap it half way around him. He chuckles darkly, grabbing my butt so tight it hurts.

"You’ll bruise me, Ni.", I say.

"You mean I’ll mark you as mine.", he corrects me.

As mine? Oh god. This is both daunting and sexy. He’s possessive, rough, dominant. Any idiot could sense that. I’ve never played much with domination and submission before, but the fantasy of Niall not only pinching and grabbing, but slapping, spanking, bruising my ass is more than just a little appealing to me

He brushes his cock against my center, asking “Do you feel that?” and I nod, unintentionally licking my lips.

"Naked as you are, I could do whatever I want with you.", he whispers.

"I know.", I reply. "You could."

He starts thrusting his hips a little, slow, almost unoticable, but the friction is intense enough to make me sigh and close my eyes, pleased with the sweet feeling of his body against mine

I respond to his thrusts, bucking my hips forward. My bare breasts are pressed against his chest, my lips covered in his saliva.

"Grinding your pussy against my cock like dry humping ninth graders, huh?", he asks. "Dirty girl."

He slaps my butt under the sheets and I start giggling. I don’t fucking know what’s happening to me.

"But I guess you’re just taking your chance. If I’d wake up next to me, I’d want sex, too.", he laughs.

"You’d fuck yourself?"

“‘f course, Morgan, come on. Everybody wants to fuck me.”, he responds, pulling a dumb face.

I laugh and shake my head. “Idiot.”

"But only you get to.", he then adds in a husky voice.

Holy fuck. Holy fucking shit, yes. Only I get to? Today? Or in general? Is he commiting to me by saying this? I don’t care. I just want to fuck him. Want him to fuck me.

He shoves his hand between my thighs from behind and the sudden prickle of his fingers on, then, abruptly in my pussy, makes me moan. I didn’t expect him to be so quick and just go straight to putting his hand where I wanted it the most.

"We need to get your little pussy really wet first, babygirl.", he groans. He taps on my clit with his middle finger, then circles it around my entrance. It feels so good, for fuck’s sake.

I grind on his forearm and he smiles. “Using my arm now?”

"Mhm.", I say.

"I’m not yer liddle sex toy, you greedy slut.", he quietly chuckles, then pulls his arm back. "Roll on yer back for me."

I do what I’m told and watch him stretch his arms, every vein shining through his pale skin, then get on his knees. He takes the blanket off my body so I’m exposed. But he looks at my body with such lust and approval I can’t waste a single second on wondering if I’m beautiful enough for him. He tells me I am and I believe it. Again I wish I could see myself through his eyes, so badly.

I bend my knees and spread my legs, stretching my arms over my head. His hungry eyes wander from mine over my stomach to my center.

"That’s the kind of breakfast I like best.", he mutters.

I already arch my back and push my hips into his direction. I’m really impatient right now.

"So desperate for Daddy to eat your pussy?", Niall laughs and winks at me. Kneeling there, looking down on me like a predator on his brute, he could be my murderer or angel. I’m sure he’ll eat me good, he’ll fuck me even better, but then? What if he leaves? What if his words were meaningless, just lies, hollow like his eyes sometimes seem to be? Why am I afraid of the pain his absence might cause me? Am I really that desperate? Not just for him to fuck, but stay with me? But what if he stays? What if he takes up the emptiness inside of my soul until there’s no space for me left to escape into? I want neither of these things just as much as I want them. I’m so torn between my lust and confusion.

"Why are you shaking?", he then asks.

"Why are you shaking?”, I response, looking at his trembling hands.

"I’ve been on drugs for almost a day.", he honestly answers.

"Is it that bad?"

He just shrugs and puts his hands on my thighs. “I’ll get high on that.”, he groans and finally bends forward, spreading my legs so far the insides of my thighs hurt. I watch him lowering his head between them and try to relax. Which is very, very hard.

He starts off by planting sloppy little kisses on my inner thighs and pubic bone.

"I bet you taste like heaven, babe, too bad I’m going to hell.", he mutters and the vibration of his low voice on and around my center feels like a warm shower coming over me.

He uses his fingers to spread my folds and blow cold air on my clit.

"Fuck!", I moan and uncontrollably buck my hips, bumping against his nose.

"Ouch!", he chuckles. "Not so fast, little one." He puts both of his hands on my hips now, pushing me into the matress to get into control. "Stay. Down. Let Daddy do his work."

"I’m still bleeding, Niall, did you forget I’m-"

"Shhh.", he hushes me. "Let me do this. Stay down, babygirl, it’s all good. I’ll be a goddamn vampire if you need me to."

How am I gonna stay down, how am I gonna stay in control over my body? I’m a fucking mess already. I know I’m getting wet, I’m already twitching and he hasn’t even really started yet. This is absolutely fucking crazy. He’s crazy and I’m crazy about him I guess.

He continues by sliding the tip of his tongue all the way up from my entrance to my clit, then softly sucks on my clit before he proceeds to lick it like a kitten.

"Jesus christ.", I moan. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything this good. It’s so good it’s unbearable again. Too good. Too much. A part of me actually wants him to stop already, I don’t know if I can take what awaits me.

"Jesus isn’t here, stupid.", he groans. "He won’t help you."

"For fuck’s sake Niall could you stop talking like that, you’ll make me cum before you even start eating me out properly?", I laugh, even if it’s hard to speak in proper sentences right now.

"Don’t you dare cumming before I tell you.", he dryly responds.

But how? I try not to focus too much on the way he flicks my clit with his pointy tongue and when he takes one hand off my hips, strictly telling me to “Stay. The. Fuck. Down.”, I actually push myself into the matress, trying my very best to do what he told me.

He dips his thumb into my wetness, stretching my entrance a little. It feels amazing. Then, he slowly shoves his index and middle finger in, making a come hither movement on my g spot.

"Holy fucking shit, Ni, this is-", I cry out, unable to keep from moving.

He quickly pulls his head backand looks up at me from between my legs.

"Morgan, I told you to stay calm or I’ll just have to fuck you right away.", he says in a serious, slightly pissed tone. Shit. If it wasn’t that hot, I’d get a little scared. "And then I won’t be that gentle with you. Behave and be a good girl for me or I’ll have to punish you. And believe me, there won’t be much pleasure for you in choking on my cock."

This is what my kinkiest dreams are made of. What I’m ashamed of having fantasized about when I’m done touching myself.

"Okay, I’ll t-try.", I stutter, trying hard to catch my breath.

"No, don’t try. Behave.", he rebukes me, tapping on my clit with his thumb.

"I will.", I pant. It’s so fucking hard to stay calm when it feels like his hands and tongue are setting a fire between my shaky, sweaty legs.

"Say it. Say that you’ll behave for me.", he demands.

I bite my lip. It’s so hot when he talks like that. So bossy, so cocky. So intimidating. So fucking hot. I can only imagine how fucking good he’ll make me cum and I know I want him to. Even if it’s painful, it’s just as pleasing and I want nothing more than to cum for and thanks to Niall.

"I’ll behave for you.", I sigh and then, knowing this will get him to give me what I’m yearning for so bad, add "I promise, Daddy."

He groans and I know he’s smirking, I can feel it in the kiss he plants on my inner thigh.

"That’s my girl." he whispers. "You taste so good. And you’re so wet for me. Do you want me this much?" I hold on to his hair, pull it a little and whimper "Yes".

Then, he finally continues to circle the tip of his tongue on and around my clit, whilst pumping his index and middle finger in and out, increasing his pace with every moan that slips from my mouth. Stay down, stay down, stay down, stay down, I tell myself whilst my body wants to push itself against Niall’s face.

I’m so greedy, even if I’m twitching and shaking already. My self control can’t keep me from squirming under his hand a little, which makes him claw his short nails into my lower stomach, trying to reprimand me without any words.

It just gets better and better, or worse, I’m not sure if the way he makes me feel is good anymore. I’m getting closer and closer to cumming , gasping for breath like I’m going insane.

"I’m- I’m", I stammer. "Ni-all, I’m gonna-"

"Don’t.", he says. "Not yet. Hold it in."

"But-", I beg. I’m so dizzy. My heart races, its fast beat is echoing in my head and I’m sweating all over my weak body. Almost like during a panic attack, just that right now, I am not scared at all. In his tight grip, helplessly delivered to this man I barely know, I feel so unmindfully safe.

"It’s good, huh? Too much for a little girl like you?", Niall asks, incessantly rubbing my g spot with his fingers. "No one ever did this to you before, right?"

"Uh-uh.", I shake my head. "I- Niall, please, I’m-"

"What?", he playfully asks, flicking my clit again. "What do you want?"

"I w-want to cum, I’m begging you-"

I never thought someone would deny my orgasm and if anyone ever told me, I probably would’ve laughed and told them I’d never ever let anyone treat me like that. I would’ve claimed my right to cum when I want to, but for some reason, trying so hard, so fucking hard not to let go and prolonging, completely exhausting this tense moment is sure as hell the best sexual experience I’ve ever made. If it wasn’t already, I’d lose my mind now.

"Do I get something in return?" He kisses my clit with puckered lips, softly sucking on it.

"Yes, wh-whatever you want, I just-", I moan.

"Whatever I want?", he asks. His fucking tone drives me insane. His voice is husky, low, unusually raspy, yet playful and provoking. "Will you sell your soul to me?"

"If-If yo-you want t-to", I stutter, half laughing, half moaning. Even now he’s being silly.

"Will you do the dishes and let me snort coke off your ass, suck me off whenever I want to and massage my back?"

"Yes, yes, everything.", I sigh, trying not to let the prickle his fingers cause me take over me completely. I’m trying so fucking hard, but I just want to let loose and cum.

"Will you-", he stops, teasing me by dragging his tongue all the way up again, "will you be mine?"

"Y-yes.", I answer. I already am. Shit. What the fuck is happening, asks an alarmed voice in my head, but I can barely hear it over my own moans. “I- I already am.”

I can feel him grinning again. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

I’m quivering, panting, trembling. And then, finally- “Cum for me, baby.”

I let go. For a split second, it feels like I’m fainting. I arch my back, finally allowed to buck my hips and even now he still licks my throbbing clit. My walls tighten around his fingers and I can hear him chuckling. It amuses him to see how I lose myself in the sticky sheets. I bet he feels powerful, superior, dominant. My orgasm exceeds everything my body ever went through. It’s so good it hurts and the slight pain makes it even better. As I’m coming down from my incredible high, I know I want Niall entirely. I want him to fuck me, to properly take me and take me good.

But once the craze recedes, I hear my phone ringing on the nightstand. “Fuck.”, I mumble, still desperately trying to catch my breath. Niall tilts back. I look at him. His cheeks are flushed and he smiles. His glassy eyes look made and insane, but I love it. I love the sight of his excited face, his lips still wet from my juice. There’s a bit of blood in the corners of his mouth. I completely forgot about the fact I’m still on my period. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. He licks his lips and I wish the ringing of my phone wouldn’t irritate me that much. I wish he’d just crawl on and fuck me.

"What day is it?", I ask though.

"Monday, why?"

"Fuck!", I yell, reach for my phone and answer the call. I already know who it is. "I’m so sorry!"

"Where are you?", Lucy’s mother, Mrs Robins, asks. "I’m waiting. There’s three poodles who need a proper haircut and-"

"I’m so sorry.", I repeat. Well, I couldn’t care less about ugly poodles from ugly people who get an ugly haircut at the dog parlour I ocassionally work. I totally forgot I was supposed to help there today. "I’ll be there as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible? You better hurry, Morgan."

I know Lucy’s mother never liked her daughters weird friend with the angry face, which is why I was actually kind of thankful she’d let me work at her ridiculous dog parlour to earn a little extra money, but I know it was mainly Lucy, who, despite my lack of friend qualities, asked her mother to show mercy. I loved dogs, I always did, but the ones we took care of were like spoiled little children, annoying, loud and even if some of them had painted claws, they shat everywhere.

"I will, I promise.", I say and hang up. I throw the phone back on the nightstand and sit up. I don’t give a fuck about the look of my stomach rolls or if my hair’s a mess after what he’s done to me, because Niall smiles at me and my naked body as if it, no, as if I was truly beautiful. And I wonder if this is what I am to him. He already said it, but now I really believe it. I am beautiful to him.

"Work?", he assumes and I nod. I scoot off my bed and stumble to my dresser. Maybe I should shower, but honestly, I want to avoid any kind of argument with a woman like Mrs Robinson. She’s always in a bad mood, like me, but she tries to hide it behind a broad, fake smile, tons of make up and the ugliest fucking granny perm I’ve ever seen.

"I’ll take you there.", Niall says and gets off the bed, too. I blindly grab a bra and a slip that don’t even match, knowing Niall’s behind me, watching.

"I fucking love your ass.", he says and steps closer to slap it. "I really wanna spank you some time, would that be okay?"

"That would be okay.", I reply. More than that. Fuck.

"I’ll bruise you.", he warns me. "It’ll hurt really bad. And you’ve been such a good girl, maybe you don’t even deserve it."

"You know I can get bad.", I say and turn to him. He grabs my face and roughly kisses me, slapping my ass a little harder.

"Can you?"

"Yeah, but not bad enough not to go to work.", I sigh and put on a simple black dress. Niall helps me with the zipper, then proceeds to put on his clothes, too.

"My shirt stinks.", he says as he picks it up from the floor.

"You want one of mine?", I ask him and laugh.

"Yeah, why not?" He walks back to me and I pass him an oversized Bad Religion shirt that should fit. "Usually, boyfriends lend girlfriends shirts and not the other way around."

Boyfriend? Girlfriend? What?

"So?", I ask. "We’re different." Right. Because we’re not boyfriend and girlfriend.

Niall nods and smiles, then puts on the shirt. As he pulls it over his head, I can’t help but look at his stomach, his v lines, his fucking muscles. And the bulge in his tight boxers. He wanted me so bad and he could have fucked me how he wanted if I didn’t have to go to work. I’m slightly pissed.

I put my hair up in a messy bun, remembering how Niall washed it the night before. I was so sad, so fucking devastated. Right now, I feel fucking happy. So happy it’s almost gross.

"Come on then, babe, I’ll take you to work.", Niall says when he’s done putting on his jeans. He reaches for my hand and I let him take it, leaving my flat with him, as something we weren’t when he came here last night.

He takes me to work and I both hope and not hope for Lucy’s mother and the customers to see who’s the mysterious guy that drops me off. He kisses me on the cheek before I get out of the car and I can feel him watching as I walk towards the pastel pink house.

"Have a good day. I’ll be here when work’s over.", he yells.

I turn around. “Oh, you don’t have to.”, I answer. “I have an Oyster card, I can-“

"I’ll be here.", he interrupts me, waving at me before he starts the motor and drives off.

He’ll be there. I can hear dogs barking, I smell the shampoo, the sanitizer. Then, I feel someone approaching and turn to see Mrs Robinson. She’s wearing red lipstick.

"Who was that?", she asks, without even saying Hello first. So she saw him.

"Niall Horan.", I reply. "That blonde guy from that band One Direction."

"Yeah sure.", she dryly responds. "Good one. Still not over that phase?"

"I’m so over it.", I say.

"So, who was it?", she repeats.

"Not my boyfriend.", I sigh, trying hard not to look into her brown eyes.

"You think you’re very funny, don’t you?", she snorts and turns around. "Come on! There’s work for you to do."


	9. Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby, I'm a sociopath, sweet serial killer  
> and I'll love you just a little too much

He doesn’t know how to pass the fucking time until he picks her up from work again. When he told her he’d be there, she didn’t seem to approve of his decision. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t even dare to suspect that he might really like her. Does she think she’s not worthy of his attention? Does she believe she doesn’t deserve his affection?

If only she knew the extent of what he’s feeling. And if only he knew how to cope with it. To keep her from what she really doesn’t deserve. The impacts of his attention. The consequences to his affection.

He stretches his legs out on the bathroom floor, leaning his head against the cold, white tiles. He’s naked, vulnerable to his own reflection in the big mirror in front of him. He stares into his own eyes. They’re wide, red, glassy. There’re ditches he can’t cry into beneath them.

He’s calm now. After the high of a white line, he took an ice cold shower. He was going to brush his teeth but then dropped it, for there was still a hint of her taste lingering in his mouth. He sat down on the bathroom floor and tried not to listen to the ticking of the clock in the hallway, but it got louder each second. Tik, tok, tik, tok, tik, tok. A countless times. But whenever he turned around to look at the digital clock above the toilet, only a few minutes had passed.

Sometimes, he fantasized about being found right here, on the wet floor. Dead. Killed by an overdose. Killed by himself. His own demons. He’d laugh at the thoughts so they couldn’t harm him. They were too likely to become reality one day. There was a time when he thought he wanted to grow old. Have a little family. Be one of those bearded, fat grandpas who sit on a porch and read fairytales to their grandchildren. But he missed the train to Wonderland and went downhill, straight into the valley of long forgotten dreams and the bitter acceptance of ugly truths nobody liked to talk about. He was not alone. Big cities like London were just limbos, a more glamourous kind of purgatory for those who refused to give in and confess they gave up long ago. He was not alone in the masses of a thousand strange faces in the grey April rain. And his was a lovely one. The others turned around to look at it. Smiled. Because they recognised it. Remembered what it once was.

He was not alone in this darkness. But he was lonely.

Was.

There was a dark side to everyone. Some showed it without fear, some used it. He hid it. Because it was more like a cruel bacterium he carried in his organs. And when he saw her, it germed. She made the hard shell of this ulcer leak. Its poison coursed into his veins as she infected him with her own darkness.

She was so much more than what he thought she was. He’d sensed it, but when he went after her, grabbed her bleeding arms, kissed the scars, kissed her, woke up from a nightmare, yearning for a shot, a line, or just a smoke, anything to numb him and make him feel better, but then realised that reality was, for once, better than every state of daydreaming any drug could take him to, he just knew.

And now, he wants her entirely. He wants to know the reason for every single scar on her skin, wants to know what it is she thinks of when she looks at him. He doesn’t just want to know her soul, no, he wants to own it, consume it, make it his, keep it safe. And her body, her goddamn body. From her lips to the sweet taste of the heaven between her soft thighs, he wants it.

Could the time pass any slower?

That’s when he hears his mobile vibrating in the kitchen.

"Fuck.", he mutters. But what if it’s her? He gets up as quick as he can. His legs are numb and he almost trips over a towel he left on the floor, but he manages to somehow make his way to the kitchen within three seconds.

He picks up the phone without checking the screen first. It’s not her.

"Niall, it’s me, Ted."

Niall rolls his eyes. What does he want? Another party to attend? An award show? Ted took care of Niall’s business inquiries. He was both his manager and assistant, but he gave up on trying to advice Niall a long time ago. He knew it was useless. Niall did whatever he wanted anyway and before he got drunk at an important public event and made a complete fool out of himself, Ted would let Niall go to clubs of his choice instead and just check on him from time to time to make sure he’s okay.

He liked him, who couldn’t, but he eventually accepted that he wasn’t responsible for him.

"I’m not your nanny." Those were Ted’s favorite words.

"Sup?", Niall asks and clears his throat.

"Are you mad at me?", Ted asks.

"No, I’m not.", Niall replies. Just shitfaced and pissed as usual.

"Seriously?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

"So you don’t know?" Ted’s voice almost cracks.

"No, I don’t?" What the fuck is he talking about?

"Well, then there’s something I got to talk to you about.", Ted says. He sounds serious. Fuck no. Niall quickly tries to remember if he’s done any kind of shit in the past weeks, but it’s all been the usual stuff. Except for Morgan and the time he spent with and thinking of her, that was not usual. But Ted couldn’t possibly know about that.

"What, then?", Niall asks.

"There’s this woman who kept calling me, saying you insulted and threatened her at a club."

Niall just laughs. No matter how pissed he gets, no matter how much aggression he carries within, he’d never insult a woman, except for during sex, for her own pleasure.

"This is ridiculous.", he sighs. "I never did that."

"You were drunk I guess, you couldn’t remember if you did anyway.", Ted responds.

"Uh-uh." Niall shakes his head and walks to the kitchen window. "I’d never do that, no matter how much I drank. There’s someone trying to fool you."

"I thought so too, first, but she just doesn’t stop. She said she’d go public.", Ted goes on. Niall can picture his face. He’s got deep wrinkles, even if he’s only about fourty, and he’s almost bald. He looks a little bit like Phil Collins, or Lord Voldemort. "She said she already told the press."

"So? Let her. Nobody’s gonna believe that shit.", Niall says, slowly getting a little angry. If people believe it, there’ll be more than just a shitstorm in all these social networks he sometimes still blesses with a selfie or a tweet. "And if they do, I don’t mind." That’s a lie. He would. Shit like this can ruin your entire career. And even if his is basically dead, he still wouldn’t want that to happen. Which is absolutely ridiculous, since it’s a goddamn paradox regarding the entire Morgan issue.

And his issues in general. His thoughts. His demons. His dark side. But, just like he thought about it before: He tries to hide it. Tries to choke it down. But it seems less and less controllable.

"This could cause a lot of trouble we don’t want to get you in.", Ted says.

"How often did this woman call? Do you know her name? Her number? I’ll call and talk to her. She’ll stop with that shit before you can say knife." Niall is determined to save his reputation for as long as he still can.

"No, I’m sorry. She called on anonymous and honestly, I don’t want to get the police involved, those filthy-"

"And you don’t know her name?", Niall interrupts Ted. Fuck. He feels his anger increasing with each heartbeat. He’ll crush the phone if his grip gets any tighter.

"No, I don’t.", Ted says.

"So, do you have any idea how to stop that woman? I mean, it’s hilarous. Why’d she come up with a story like that now."

"I was wondering, too, I mean, since nobody really seems to care ab- No, Niall, I’m sorry, but you know what I mean, don’t you?"

Niall stopped listening after nobody really seems to care about YOU. About him. Anymore. He knew that. But hearing it, from the mouth of the man who was supposed to at least make him feel like the popular guy he used to be actually hurt him. And only added to his wish to punch a fucking hole in the wall. He needs to get out of this flat, needs to go to the gym. Beat up the fucking punchbag till his knuckles pop.

Then pick up Morgan and fuck her to get his mind off these things and feel nothing but the her breath on his skin and her greedy, shaky hands on his body. She was nervous whenever she touched him, so fragile on the inside. Did he have the power to break what was left of her heart? He’d never even try.

"What do we do?", Niall asks even if Ted’s still talking.

"I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. I was gonna call you earlier, but honestly Niall, I just, I- I forgot." Something in Ted’s tone really worries Niall.

"Are you trying to tell me something?", he asks.

"They already printed it."

"The fuck did they do."

"I’m serious Niall, it’s out today. I’m actually sort of surprised you didn’t know already. What have you been up to? Did nobody text you or tweet you or call you up?" Ted exhales loudly.

"I haven’t checked my phone in a while.", Niall dryly replys. "I’ve been out."

"Out, yeh? Great." Ted snorts. "Niall, your face is on the cover of The Sun."

Fuck no. “Did they take a nice one?”, he asks, trying to trick Ted into thinking he’s calm, when actually, he’s digging his nails into his own palm, knowing it’ll bleed if he goes harder.

"This is a very inappropriate time for jokes."

"No shit!", Niall shouts, hauls off and hits the wall with his flat hand. A sudden pain strucks his wrist and he pulls his arm back, wondering if he just broke a bone. It hurts like crazy, but he likes it. He tries to focus on the pain while Ted keeps talking.

"We’ll be fine, you just have to tell them the truth. There’s a picture of the woman in the newspaper, they covered her eyes but maybe you know her, though. When there’s people asking about it, don’t be rude. Tell them it was a big mistake. Some might want interviews. The Sun’s probably gonna call me today. I’ll set you up for a meeting with them. You have to tell them the truth. But we must try not to blame the woman and claim she’s a liar-"

"But she is a liar!”, Niall yells.

"I know, Niall, I know.", Ted says in an intentionally soothing voice. "But if you fight back with the same weapons, who do you think they’ll believe? The former popstar with obvious drug problems and different affairs every week or an innocent woman who says she’s been assaulted?"

"Fuck this.", Niall groans.

"You know I’m right.", Ted quietly says.

"Why didn’t call me earlier, you goddamn asshole? I should have known!"

"Well I didn’t know until I saw it in the kiosk this morning, Niall! Don’t blame me!", Ted responds. Niall would laugh at the way Ted sounds when he’s getting angry. He could beat Ted to death in five, maybe ten minutes. The fact he thought about that before should scare him, but it amuses him right now.

"We could tell the police but-"

"No, no police you fucking idiot!", Niall laughs. "They come here to ask me about it and find me in a puddle of heroin with some coke in my nostril!"

Ted doesn’t answer, but Niall can hear him swallowing.

"I’ll pick up a newspaper and find this woman.", Niall then says.

"Don’t you dare, Niall, vigilantism couldn’t be more inappropriate than now!", Ted warns him.

"Yeah. I know what I’m doing.", Niall lies and hangs up.

Ten minutes later, he’s in a line of similar looking people at the next gas station. He felt pathetic doing this, but put on sunglasses and an oversized hoodie, just in case. He saw his face right when he entered. They luckily used a decent picture, even if he looks a little grumpy on it, but that just fits the context, doesn’t it? He assumes it’s been taken the night he went to the club where he first met Morgan.

He grabs an issue of The Sun, a package of cigarettes and a bar of chocolate. Alibi purchases. He tries hard not to open the goddamn newspaper and read the article. The headline on the cover says:

"HIS DIRECTION? STRAIGHT DOWNWARD"

NIALL HORAN ACCUSED OF ASSAULTING YOUNG WOMAN

Another former popstar going crazy?

"The fuck is this.", he mumbles. Going crazy. If only they knew.

He’s already sick of waiting and checks his phone to see if Morgan called or texted, but she seems to be busy washing dogs. The thought of her, the girl who’s so disgusted by human beings, taking care of little puppies with devotion, makes him smile, even though he feels like setting this damn place on fire.

"Excuse me, could you hurry a little?", he yells at the cashier, who seems to need another year to serve the coffee the old woman at the other end of the line ordered. The bearded man just raises his eyebrows and squints. He looks at the newspaper in Niall’s hands, then back at his face. The corners of his dry mouth curl up.

Fuck. Niall crumples The Sun in his damp hands, his legs feel like pudding.

"Watch your mouth.", the cashier then says.

The urge to step out of the line and walk towards the checkout, haul off and just punch this bastard in the crinkly face is so strong, Niall silently counts to ten like his boxing coach told him. It’s ridiculous how this man feels superior to him now. He’s probably proud that someone like Niall visits his goddamn gas station and believing in what The Sun, the bible of fucktards like him, writes, he probably think he’s playing good guy, giving the bad guy from the front page a roasting.

"Watch your mouth.", Niall mocks him, gnashing his teeth.

The girl in front of him turns around, her mouth a round O. She doesn’t recognise him, but she sees to be intimidated by the sudden tension in the stuffy gas station shop. The two other men in line just smile at each other, they look like the stuck up kind of guy that wouldn’t stop Niall from attacking the cashier for the sake of their freshly cleaned ties.

"Ah yeah?", the cashier provokes him.

"My coffee.", the woman reminds him and Niall is thankful for her to interrupt what would sure as hell end in something Ted would call "a disaster" and The Sun "a proof".

How much bottled-up anger can a screwed up man like him keep in his body? The newspaper is just a ball of paper in his fingers by now.

"Sorry, ma’am.", the cashier says and finally hands her the beverage.

It takes all of Niall’s mental strength to patiently wait until the men and the girl have paid for their gas and gum, then, he’s right in front of the cashier.

"No good news today, Backstreet Boy?", he asks as he scans The Sun and the other goods.

Niall bites his tongue not to say anything this goddamn asshole could use against him, even if he’d love to threaten him. He could beat him to death. He could smash that fucking pig face, break his much too long nose. Rip out his fucking eyeballs and kick him in the stomach until he pukes his guts out. Then kick him in the face and watch him die. Should he be ashamed of these thoughts?

He should. But he’s given up on trying. His consience is useless.

Yet, instead of insulting him like he’d love to, he just says “The Sun writes a lot of crap these days.”, in an ironically calm tone. He smiles, shows the man his teeth. “You shouldn’t believe in everything you read.”

He gives him twice as much money as he has to and takes off his shades to wink at him before he turns around and leaves. He’s proud he stayed calm. Ted would approve of this. But it was fucking hard. As soon as he reaches his car, climbs in and closes the door, he screams.

He’s so fucking angry. His voice cracks, he buries his face in his hands, rubs his eyes.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.", he repeats. He’s close, he knows it. If he doesn’t do anything about it, he’ll have one of these fucking attacks. Not a panic attack like Morgan. The thought of her suddenly eases his mind. Her face, her beautiful eyes, her mouth. He wants to see her. She could keep him from snapping. On the other hand, he knows he’ll snap sooner or later either way. And she’ll be the reason. "Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck."

He leans back, breathes in, out, in, out. He’s sweating. He reaches for the new package of cigarettes and lights one. He coughs, tears up, sucks the smoke in, though. He could do with something else than nicotine now, but he wants to pick Morgan up.

"Nevermind.", he mumbles and pulls the little silver box out of his pockets. Dope should do it. He picks the nicest looking blunt and puts the box away again. Then, he rotatory takes a pull on the cigarette and the joint. Smoking in a parking lot feels like a forbidden teenage dream. He puts on the radio, but most stations play pop music that would only add to his aggression. He needs something literally aggressive to calm down and finally finds a station with hard rock and metal. They’re playing Rob Zombie and he’s more than fine with that.

Mouthing the words to ‘Feel So Numb’, he closes his eyes and inhales the thick smoke until he feels brave enough to pick up The Sun and read what they wrote on him.

He turns the pages only to look at the face of a woman he knows too well.

"Fucking bitch.", he cusses. Now that no one hears it, he can insult her, can’t he? "Fucking bitch. Goddamn fucking bitch."

It’s the redhead he fucked in the lonely alley. They covered her eyes with the usual black bar, but he recognises her face, no matter how drunk he was when he came on her little dress. And he sure knows he did not do anything but fuck her.

Well, he gave her the wrong number. Is that why she lies? That’s actually likely.

"This is so fucking stupid.", he laughs, then proceeds to read.

23 year old Amber*, who studies literature in London, spent a fun night out with her best friend Regina*, when the young women spotted a familar face in their favorite bar.

"I couldn’t believe it.", Amber says, "it was Niall Horan from One Direction. I fancied him in my teenage years." It took a little persuasion from her best friend to get the beautiful redhead to talk to her idol, but she eventually walked up to the irish lad, who was known as the ‘sunshine’ of the back then so popular pop group One Direction.

"She was so nervous.", her best friend tells us. "I told her to go for it. Niall always seemed like a friendly guy, you know, even if he seemed to have changed a little, lately."

Clearly, Regina refers to Horan’s piling affairs and antics, involving easy women, alcohol and, as reliable sources say, drugs, as well. The former happy go lucky guy’s didn’t just grow up, he grew into the well known wreck of a former celebrity who can’t seem to get over the end of his fame. Yet, he kept calm and didn’t get into any serious trouble. Up until now. With tears in her beautiful eyes, Amber continues to tell us what happened after she approached the already drunk singer.

"He made some rude comments on my dress. He probably thought I’d take it as a compliment, but he just made me feel uncomfortable.", she stutters.

"I should have called her back.", her best friend says, full of regret. But, awed by the presence of her celebrity crush, Amber gave Niall the chance to invite her on a few drinks.

"He kept staring at my cleavage. If it wasn’t for him, I would have turned around already. And at some point, after more disgusting ‘compliments’, he grabbed my arm and told me he’d fuck me."

Amber stops. She still can’t believe the man she thought was a good guy turned out to be such a “pig”, as her best friend describes him.

"He said things I don’t want to repeat.", Amber sobs. She’s shaking, holding her best friend’s hand and trying hard not to start crying. "And when I told him I didn’t want to sleep with him, he yelled ‘Why not? You look like a slut, so why don’t you let me fuck you like one?’. I turned around and me and Regina left, but he followed us. He called us ‘ugly slags’ and said he ‘wouldn’t touch gross bitches like us in a million years anyway’. We ran off because we were, in fact, scared of getting raped."

That’s when Amber can’t hold it back anymore. She breaks down in her best friend’s arms and we decide it’s better to stop interviewing her. There’s not much more to add anyway. After Justin Bieber and other stars who got too famous too young, it seems as if it’s, of all five ex One Direction members, the ‘cute’ one who goes down the lane of broken dreams. He went too far already.

A thousand still faithful fans are disappointed in her idol. Once on top of the charts, Niall Horan is now on top of the list of Britain’s Biggest Assholes.

*all names were changed for Amber and Regina claim they are “too scared of meeting Niall again”, which is horribly shocking

That was a bunch of fucking lies, except for the last sentence maybe. Niall lowers the newspaper and throws the stubs out the window. He’s high as fuck, thank God, or Satan. If he wasn’t, he’d probably walk back into the gas station shop and actually beat the cashier up, even if he’s in no way responsible for what The Sun wrote.

Those fucking girls teamed up to ruin what was left of his reputation. Do they want money? Do they want their five damn seconds of fame? No matter how, they’ll get something.

"Too scared of meeting me again?", Niall whispers to himself. "Goddamn right."

They will meet him again. It won’t be too hard to find out where they live. Not for him. Screw what Ted said. He’ll make them take it back. Publicly.

The press always printed a lot of shit, starting off with “Niall Horan believes in staying a virgin until marriage” in the early years of One Direction, but this is, by far, the biggest crap he ever read. These girls are just frustrated. The redhead because he gave her the wrong number, the other girl because he didn’t choose to fuck her, too.

He wonders if he should track them down now, but that’s when his phone rings. It’s Morgan.

"Yeh?", he coughs. "Morgan?"

"Yes, it’s me, I think you saw my name on screen.", she dryly responds.

“‘f course. Done with work?”

"Yup. No dogs left. I can leave. But you don’t have to pick me up, I can-"

"I’ll be there in ten minutes. Wait for me. Stay inside, take care."

He starts the car and drives off the parking lot.

It takes him fifteen minutes to get to the dog parlour and he hates himself for it.

"I’m so sorry!", he says as he stumbles out of the car. Morgan’s sitting on the sidewalk. She looks gorgeous in her black dress and sheer tights. Her eyes seem tired, but unusually happy.

"It’s okay!", she laughs. "I didn’t expect you to be here so quick anyway."

"Why?", he asks as he grabs her arm and helps her get up from the warm asphalt.

"Because your place is kinda far away from here?" She shakes her head. She clearly doesn’t see the problem that bugs him now.

"But I told you I’ll be there in ten minutes. And I stick to my promises. I always do." He’s so serious about that. Whatever he promises her, he’ll keep it. He’ll do whatever she tells him to. Well, almost.

"Niall, calm down.", she says and strokes his cheek. This unexpected touch makes him shiver. Her skin smells of strawberry shampoo, mixed with the scent of dogs in the rain. He kisses her hand though, grabbing her fingers and pressing them against his face to tight her knuckles crack a little.

"What’s wrong?", she asks. She senses that there’s something else on his mind but how happy he is to be with her again, even if it’s only been a few hours without him.

"Nothing." She obviously didn’t see the newspaper. She doesn’t seem like she cares about what’s happening around her anyway. Luckily. "Nothing’s wrong."

"You’re lying to me.", she responds. "You’re lying, Niall."

"Shh.", he hushes her and leans forward to kiss her.

"You taste what I think Bob Marley’s corpse tastes like.", she chuckles. "How high are you? It’s not good to drive when you’re stoned."

"Yeh. Want me to take you home quick then?"

She looks down, then shakes her head. “Uh-uh. I don’t feel like going home to be honest.”

"You wanna go anywhere?" That seems unlikely, but he very much approves of it. He knows a lot of nice places in and around London, and even Hyde Park would do it. He just wants to spend time with her. The sky is orange, pink and light blue. A soft breeze tickles his skin. The sunset is going to be beautiful tonight.

"I think I do." She nods. "I must be sick."

"Maybe you’re just in love.", he jokes. It’s not really a joke. How badly he wishes she was, that’s what’s really sick.

"You’d like that, huh?", she sighs. "No, Niall."

Why? Why is she so fucking afraid? Then again, he can imagine. She should be. He bites his lip and lets go of her to open the car’s door.

"Get in.", he says. "I’ve got an idea."

"I’ll trust you." She smiles at him and climbs on the passenger seat. He shuts the door and walks around the car to get to his side.

"Maybe you shouldn’t.", he mumbles before he gets in, too.

There’s a lot of traffic on London’s street on this late spring afternoon. Everyone seems to be slightly bedazzled by the beauty of the sky and the smell of the warm breeze and Niall’s finally feeling the hot flashes of anger inside of him turn into soothing, soft rain. He leans back in the driver’s seat and puts his hand from the gearstick on her leg, softly stroking her thigh through the fabric of her nylon tights.

She turns to him, an inexplicable, baffling expression on her face. He keeps his eyes on the street as his hands wander up her thigh.

"Niall.", she says, like a warning.

The setting sun is blinding him. He digs his short nails into Morgan’s flesh and she flinches, but he can tell that she likes it. He’ll tear little holes in her tights with his raw fingertips. She scoots down a little, only slightly spreading her legs.

He stops the car at a red traffic light and rests his hand close enough to her crotch to feel her warmth on his little finger. Teasing her is fun, even if he suffers, too. It’s hard to stay in control when his entire, still subliminally angry self yearns for her body.

He has to take his hand off her leg to operate the gearstick and she sighs, either reliefed or disappointed. He can’t tell. He hates it when he doesn’t know what she thinks. She’s so hard to suss.

"Where are we going?", she then asks as if nothing happened. As if she couldn’t sense that he was horny again, in the most inappropriate moment. Everything was serene as only spring evenings can be, the song on the radio a melancholic melody.

"You’ll see", he replies.

_______________________________________________

_______________________________________________

_______________________________________________

I close my eyes. The car stinks but breathing next to Niall is hard enough anyway. I don’t know where he takes me , but I really don’t care. As long as the invisible print of his hand on my thigh lasts, I’m bound to be with him. When he asked me to sell my soul to him, I laughed. But I kind of feel like I’m actually giving it away. Not selling it, because I get nothing in return.

Except for him. And I know that this is more than I could ask for, but I would have never even asked for him in first place. I would have never thought I wanted this. A man. To touch me, kiss me, hold me when I’m pathetically weak. Someone to see who and what I really am. And even if, I would have never expected this man to be the man in the driver’s seat.

Someone so different from whom I thought he was when he was nothing but a phantom. Someone real. Someone with a heart that started racing too quick, someone with a brain that had locked away a truth I was eager to find out, someone with eyes that took all strength from my shaky hands and made me stretch them out, made me reach for him, because in his arms was where I felt I was supposed to be. Maybe it would fade. Maybe it was just the sudden excitement about the change I’ve been waiting for. Maybe I would soon come to my senses. But his presence muffles all the voices, numbs all feelings except for one: Absolute affection.

A wild, scary kind. This is not sane, not healthy, not okay. But it makes me feel alive. I’m not lonely anymore. And I’m alive.

I wish he’d never stop driving. I’d run away with him. I don’t care how, I don’t care where. But eventually, I realise we’re heading to Notting Hill. He parks the car in an abandoned street.

"We’re there." he says, gets out of the car and opens the door for me. Like the gentleman he’ll never be, he takes my hand to help me.

"What exactly are we doing here?", I want to know.

"Visiting someone.", Niall says and winks at me.

"This is not the romantic walk I thought you were thinking of.", I mumble as I look around. The houses look old and sad somehow, as far as a building can and they don’t seem to fit the rest of the district. They’re plain boring. To me, Notting Hill’s always been pastel colored houses, Portobello Road and the little bookshop from the eponymic film, which I’ve solely watched for Rhys Ifans. But not Bartle Road, which is the name of the street we’re strolling down.

"You don’t like cheesy crap.", Niall reminds me and I nod. "Then come."

He pulls my arm and we walk on. Somehow, it starts to feel familar, but I can’t quite recall where I’ve seen this neighbourhood before. Then, right in front of an unfitting gap between the houses 9 and 11, he stops.

"Hold on."

My brain’s rattling. I remember, I remember, I remember. But what do I remember? Both fear and the unbearable feeling of knowing something I’m not quite aware of yet overcome me, make me bite my nails and stomp on the asphalt. “I know what this is!”, I say.

Niall just looks at me, grinning, waiting. “Yeah?”

"Yes!" I go through a thousand irrelevant memories until the face of a skinny, frightening looking man on a black and white photograph pops up in my head. "This is 10 Rillington Place! This is where John Christie lived!"

"That’s right." Niall nods and smiles at me as if I just did something he was really proud of. "Smart girl. So you know him?"

I nod, even though I can’t quite recall the whole story of the Rillington Place Strangler.

Niall wraps his fingers tighter around mine as we both stare at the gap between the brick houses. They planted some bushes there to fill it in, trying to make it look like a garden, but it’s just the empty grave of the home to a murderer. I’ve always loved ghost stories and creepy tales, but the one about the serial killer who once lived here is true. That makes it both exciting and fucking scary. But I love it.

When you feel nothing but emptiness, feeling fear can be quite dope. I remember a few times I walked home from the club after another night of trying to distract myself from the nothingness inside of me and strangers seemed to be following me. I remember how my senses kicked in, adrenaline rushed into my veins and my feet started running like remotely controlled. I remember how intoxicated I was with the sudden overload, remember how the illusion of safety in my dark flat was suddenly no longer a burden, but my rescue. Fear is such a strong feeling. It’s ridiculous how even a suicidal man would run from anyone who threatens him, because it’s human instinct to survive. And the few times my instincts took over and I gave in to them, started running and felt the cold night air burning in my lungs were remarkable incidents in the meaningless last years.

"Tell me the story.", I demand. Not just because I want to spice up the adrenaline only. No, I want to hear Niall’s low voice, want him to tell me about the crime that started right where we stand.

He clears his throat and begins.

"John Reginald Halliday Christie was-"

"Hold on, you know his full name?", I laugh and turn to Niall. I still had my eyes glued to the spring evening sky behind the trees in the gap.

"I know a lot." Niall responds and puckers his lips. "I’m a wise boy."

"You know a lot of useless information I’m afraid.", I sigh. It’s fun to mock him a little. "Go on though."

"…born in 1899 and never conspicuous until he embezzled a money order in about 1934. He was a simple, quiet man, always intent on being the ordinary citizen. Nobody would have suspected a man like him to be that-" He stops. He sounds like the narrator of a BBC documentation, just that his accent’s coming through.

I turn to him . “That…?”

"That bad.” He pulls a mean face and I can hardly keep myself from grabbing it and pressing my mouth on his irresistible smile.

"Nobody really cared for what happened inside the small house." He points to the gap. "Until Christie moved out in 1953. Alone. The new tenant would renovate the house only to find the the dead, naked body of a woman immured in the kitchen wall. He called the police and in march 1954, they found three more corpses in the walls and a fourth one embedded in the kitchen floor. This one was John’s wife, Ethel."

"He killed his own wife.", I say, shaking my head as if after all I’ve been through, the sickness of people would still make me wonder. In all honesty, it didn’t. Of course I’d never justify murder, except maybe lynching. Or suicide. But an irrelevant girl in her twenties couldn’t stop others from murdering innocent people when she couldn’t even stop herself from wishing she had the guts to murder the part of her that made her at least half as sick as those serial killers.

"Yep." Niall takes a breath. "The police found two other skeletons on the premises, both women who went missing years ago. The bodies in the walls belonged to three prostitutes Christie had strangled to death and molested. Post mortem."

"Your average neighbourhood necrophile.", I joke.

"The twisted part is that two other murders happened in the house. Timothy Evans, who lived in 10 Rillington Place as well, was accused of having killed his daughter and his wife, after he tried to abort the child unwillingly impregnated her with." Niall’s narration voice sounds a little too amused to suit a documentation now. He obviously enjoys telling this disgusting story. "But later on, Christie was blamed for their death, too."

"Sick motherfucker."

“Sick motherfucker.”

We look at each other and he smiles. Sweat’s running down my spine, I shiver. It’s getting colder since the sun almost set. Niall sees my goosebumps and tightly wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me against his warm body.

"They teared down the house in 1970 and changed the street name, for a second time after the truth about Rillington Place came out.", he ends the story, nudging me with his nose. "But I bet the ghosts of the women still haunt the garden."

"Oh god I’m so scared.", I sarcastically whimper. "Please, please Niall, protect me from the ghosts!"

He kisses my temple a little too hard. “I’ll protect you from the ghosts. Of the dead women. But John Christie’s probably still out there.”

"Didn’t they hang him?" I’m absolutely sure they did.

"They did. But evil men leave evil spirits in this evil world."

His voice is low, hoarse, daunting. He’s kidding, but somehow, I’m suddenly a little tremolous.

"I’m sure you’re exactly his type.", he mutters. "A pretty girl with soft skin like yours…"

His hand wanders from my lower back to my butt. He turns to me as he digs his nails into my flesh, groaning, pushing his crotch against my side with his lips on my cheek.

"And you smell so fucking good.", he goes on. "And your neck…" Wrapping the fingers of his free hand around my neck, an unexpected, quiet moan escapes his open mouth. "You’d be easy to strangle."

"Uh-uh.", I respond. His sudden arousal literally rubs off on me, with his crotch on my hips and his hands around my throat and on my ass. "I’d fight you. I’d fucking kill you first. I’m not weak."

"I can make you weak if I want to. I already did.", he mutters. "You could fight as much as you want to. I’d still overpower you. Didn’t you already say that I own you?"

I can’t take this any longer. His hot breathe on my cheek drives me insane. I turn my head and kiss him on his open mouth, greedy to appease my hunger for his taste.

"Being scared and being horny feels kind of similar, doesn’t it, Morgan?", he playfully asks me.

I tilt back. “Who says I’m horny?”

Within a split second, he takes his hand off my butt to reach between my legs, cupping my center in his palm. He sprawls his middle finger, presses it between my folds through my dress, tights and panties. I know I’m warm and probably a little wet, I can’t help myself. If it comes to Niall, nobody can.

"Your pussy does, babe.", he laughs. "Wanna get back to the car? Before John comes to get you?"

"I don’t know if I’m more scared of John… or you.", I whisper.

For a moment, his blue eyes seem a little distant. He swallows hard, but then he smiles at me again.

"Come on, little one."

He takes my hand and we hurry down the road. I know it’s gonna happen, I know I’m going to get what my entire body’s longing for and that excites me more than I thought it would.

Where is he going to take me? My place? His flat? Do we stay in the car? I don’t care, I just want him. It’s getting dark, the warm breeze is slowly becoming a cool wind.

"Come, come, come!", Niall laughs as he speeds up, but then, he stops.

Irritated and suprised, I almost trip over my own feet. “What?”

That’s when I hear the voices. See the flashlights. “Has The Sun interviewed you already?”, a stranger with a russian accent asks. What? There’s about ten to twelve people at the street corner, holding cameras in their hands, looking at Niall, then, at me.

"What’s your defense, Niall?", another man asks.

"Did you insult the woman?", a bearded guy wants to know.

What are they talking about? I look at Niall, who seems like a deer in the headlight. His jaw dropped, his eyes are wide and filled with fear. He stands in front of those people, holding my hand so tightly he might break it. “What woman, Niall?”, I ask, as if their questions weren’t enough.

"What are these people talking about?"

These people are paparazzi. I almost forgot that this wasn’t just my Niall. It was also the poster boy who once couldn’t go out without running into at least thirty of these strange men with their huge cameras and inappropriate questions. And Niall looked a lot like he did back then right now. Vulnerable.

A little lost.

But I can’t focus on him only. These men are looking at me, too.

"What’s your name?", one of them demands to know and that’s the starting shot for the others to bomb me with further questions. "Are you his girlfriend?" "Who are you?" "Did he insult you, too?" "Was he assaulting you?" "Did he try to rape you?" "Is it true that he’s a drug addict?" "Are you a drug addict?" and, most most absurd one of them all "Are you his dealer?"

They’re so loud, so fucking loud, and they’re coming closer each second. They take pictures, they’re blinding me. My heart beats fast, I’m cold, so cold, cold, cold, cold, but at the same time, I feel like there’s a fucking volcano seething in my stomach and I don’t yet know if it’s eruption will end in a panic attack or me attacking the paps.

It all happens within maximum two minutes, but it feels like we’re frozen in time as they expose us, yell at us, let their cameras click, click, click, click.

"Would you please let us pass?", Niall asks in a serious tone.

"Tell us if it’s true what these women said first!", the russian pap shouts and stumbles forward to take a close up picture of Niall. My Niall.

"He asked you to let us pass!", I hiss and take a step towards the men. Niall looks at me and I can tell that what I see in his eyes is what he saw in mine when he encountered me after my last panic attack.

"Let’s just go, we’ll be okay.", he says and pulls me under his arm. "Come."

He starts walking, but these men won’t let him pass. The car’s in sight already and it would be easy to just kick these men, shove them, punch them, but I can’t. I can’t move any part of my body except my legs, hoping they will get me to the safe car as soon as possible.

I’m shaking, I’m so dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

"Would you PLEASE LET US PASS!", Niall repeats. He sounds so angry, so mad. "Can’t you see that she’s about to have a panic attack?"

Am I?

The flashlight’s are too fucking bright. One of the paps comes too fucking close. Before he’s able to take a picture of my face, I feel Niall’s body tensing. He hauls off and pulls the camera out of the pap’s hand, tossing it to the floor. “Take your fucking picture now, won’t you?”, he yells before he trashes it with his sneakers.

Then, he grabs two other paps by their shoulders and roughly shoves them to the side.

"Back the FUCK OFF!", he grunts, pulling me away from them, saving me.

I close my eyes not to have to see their faces. They’re amused, they’re so amused that Niall lost it. I don’t know what they were talking about, don’t know what they were eager to find, but I feel like they reached their goal by upsetting Niall.

He drags me to the car, opens the door and puts me on the passenger seat like I’m weightless. I lean back and try to catch my breathe. I’m not even really there, my mind is still with those strangers, even if my body’s in the safe, warm car. The men followed us, their on the sidewalk next to me now, knocking on the windows.

Niall shuts the door and I watch him, even if I’m mentally absent.

All I see is his blurry outlines shoving the paps away from the car, his hoarse voice shouting at them.

"CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING TO HER?", he yells. "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM US!"

From us. Us. We. Together, together, together.

That’s all I think of when he gets in next to me, puts the keys in and drives off with me.


	10. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse of the past makes you lie today.

There’s two more of them in front of his house, so he turns the car with squealing tires, cussing, hitting the pedal so hard I’m afraid the slightest jolt of his arm will drive us against a wall, down the next bridge, into the goddamn Thames.

"Ni-", I mumble, barely able to speak. My heart is still racing and I’m sweating like crazy, even though I’m cold in this warm car. The sun has set, it’s dark around us now. The radio’s turned off. All I hear is the constant motor and Nialls heavy breathing. His anger takes up so much space. I feel misplaced and endangered. His chest rises up and down, little, pearly drops of sweat run down his forehead. "Ni, slow down."

He doesn’t listen to me. I know he must be heading to my place and we’ll be there soon, but I’m still alarmed. I’ve got an approximate idea of Niall’s temper, but the extent is daunting right now.

"Niall, please, you’re-"

"Sh.", he hushes me. "Please, Morgan, just be quiet right now, won’t you?" And then, realising he was a little too harsh, he adds "I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry."

He bites his lower lip as if he’s trying to keep something inside his mouth. Words he doesn’t want to add to his faint apology, maybe the explanation he owes me. I don’t know. I feel taken back to the first night we met. Everything started out with riddles. And now I realise I’m caught in a web of some I can never solve.

I could be mad at him. I could complain and yell at him. Ask him what on earth’s going on. Ask him about what they asked. Blame him for how they pushing and badgering me, even if he tried to keep them away. I could, I could, I could. But instead, I quietly reach out for his hand and put my palm on the back of it, loosening his tight grip around around the gearing stick.

"I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m calm.", he repeats. "Calm."

"Yes.", I assure him. His mantras make him seem like a psychotic even more. "You’re calm."

He nods and finally, he slows down. He parks the car about two minutes away from my house.

"Just in case.", he explains and grabs my arm again. "Come."

I try to shake him off of me, but he doesn’t let go. He’s just trying to protect you, a voice in my achy head says. He just wants you to be safe. He can’t stand seeing you this scared. He wants you to be fine.

Another voice, low, muffled, begs to differ. This is scary, Morgan. What were the paparazzi talking about? He hurts you. He’s hurting you, physically, and he’ll end up hurting your soul, too.

"Let me go.", I demand as we reach the house I live in.

"Uh-uh."

"Niall, I can’t unlock the door if you don’t let me go."

"I’m sorry."

Whenever he apologises, he reminds me of a goddamn puppy. His blue eyes widen, his scruffy face seems ten years younger.

I pull the keys out of my purse and open the door. He turns his head like he’s looking out if someone’s been following us, then shoves me inside.We climb the stairs and as we get into my flat, he leans against the closed door, exhales loudly and counts to ten. I stand in the doorframe to my bedroom and watch him, somehow wishing he wasn’t here.

We stare at each other, he doesn’t even blink. Once again, he reminds me of my own reflection. Anxious, jumpy, covered in cold sweat.

"I’m so sorry for what they’ve done you.", he then babbles and crosses the space between us with a big step. He cups my face with his big hands and kisses me, half desperate, half passionate.

"I’m alright, really.", I reply. Am I? I still don’t know if my reaction to the mob was just anger or another kind of panic attack. I’ve been all at sea in my mind, right now, I can’t even remember how I got in the car. I just know that there’s something I need to ask. "What were they talking about?"

Niall gasps and rolls his eyes as if he was hoping for me not to bring this up. “Do we really have to-“

"Yes.", I strictly interrupt him. "Yes, we do. I don’t understand what’s going on. My head feels like it’s about to-" I mime an explosion before I continue. "I’m just worried. I mean-"

"This is what it’s like.", he sighs. "Being with a celebrity. I’m afraid you have to get used to this."

"No Niall, I’m not getting used to this."

Being with a celebritiy. As in being a couple. Somehow, I feel like being with a famous person, or a former famous person, shouldn’t be a problem at all. I don’t like going in public that much anyway and if I had to, I could just cover my face, for fuck’s sake, no, this is not the fucking problem. The real problem and what I have to get used to, even if that’s just plain mental, is being with Niall Horan. As in being a couple? Or as in being with a human time bomb? I’m one myself. If we go off at the same,- I can’t finish this thought.

"You don’t want to be with me?" He digs his nails into my arms. "You said you were mine."

"I- am.", I stutter. What the fuck did I get myself into? "And I want to be with you, I really do."

"Then you’ll have to make sacrifices.", he calmly explains, then kisses my forehead.

"I’m okay with that, but you have to be honest with me. And you’re not being honest at all right now. These men were talking about things, they were saying you assaulted a woman! They asked me if you tried to rape me! You have to tell me why they come up with stuff like that? This can’t be normal for a celebrity!”

"It’s more normal than you think it is.", he says. "But fine, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you. I have to." It upsets him that he’s clearly not strong enough to fight me any longer. I’ll find out sooner or later anyway. So he takes his hands off of me and walks into my bedroom.

"Can I use your laptop?", he asks.

"Yeah, it’s on my desk."

"I know."

I follow him and watch as he turns on my favorite distraction from the real world.

"This is nice.", he comments on my screensaver. It’s a picture I took of the landscape when I visited France with Dylan some years ago. "Where was that?"

"It’s, um… the côte d’azur.", I explain.

"When have you been there?"

"I can’t remember. It’s a while ago."

"With your parents?"

"No.", I respond with a dry, ironic laugh.

"With whom?"

"My ex boyfriend.", I sigh.

Niall turns to me and raises his eyebrows. “Your ex boyfriend?”

I nod. “Dylan.” Saying his name is like spitting out a gristle.

"How long have you been with him?", Niall wants to know. Talking this topic seems to make him a little angry again. But if he asks, it’s his own fault, isn’t it?

"Too long.", I respond, hoping that’ll do it.

"How many ex boyfriends do you have?"

"Since when is this your business? If I asked you how many girls you’ve slept with, you wouldn’t even be able to say an approximate number.", I hiss.

"Correct.", Niall chuckles, as if this was something to be proud of. His face stays serious, though. "I don’t care about them anymore, Morgan. They don’t matter."

"Neither does Dylan. And just so you know, he was the only boyfriend I ever had."

"This is not true.", Niall says, sounding a little offended. "I’m your boyfriend."

"You’re not my boyfriend, Niall.", I correct him.

Just because he licked my pussy and took care of me after one of my mental breakdowns, as if they were a rare and special thing, he thinks that what he have is anything close to what a relationship looks like?

This is not a boyfriend girlfriend thing. This is two people at the edge of insanity wanting to fuck out what’s left of each other’s brains and, led by instincts they could never trust in, find shelter in the hollow chest of the one they, without even really knowing them, without a rhyme or reason, could,- what? Love?

"You can’t just decide that.", Niall says, shaking his head like a stubborn child.

"You’re making a huge fucking fool out of yourself right now." Why is it so much fun to insult him?

"So do you. Stop trying to act like you don’t feel anything." He gets up from the chair, ignoring the laptop he turned on to show me something which was supposedly the answer to my question as to what the hell had happened in Notting Hill. "Stop trying to pretend that you’re still as cold as when you saw me first. Because you’re not."

He walks towards me, a little step closer with each word: “I set a fucking fire inside of you, Morgan.”

"You wish for me to want you so badly, don’t you?" I start shaking again and I can’t tell why. "You think that just because the countless others wanted you, the same applies to me. But I don’t want you like the others did."

"I know that. I don’t want you like I wanted the others, either." He’s breaving heavily, so close to me again that the warm air from his lungs is making me shiver. He seems way taller than me right now, looking down on my face with an inexplicable expression between scorn, anger, lust and plain complacency. "I want you so much more."

"Shut up!" I roll my eyes to show him how much I despise words like these. "If you want me so bad, why don’t you just answer my fucking questions and stop acting like a goddamn psycho with an anger problem?"

"I do have an aggression problem.", he calmy says.

"No shit, Horan!", I mock him. "I could tell, can you imagine?"

Fuck. I know where this is going. I step back to look at him entirely.

"Tell me!", I demand. "Tell me or I’ll kick you out, I’m serious."

"Fine!", he shouts. "Fine! You want the whole story?"

"The whole fucking story, Niall, all of it, go ahead!"

"Great!" He clenches his fists as he yells the goddam truth at me. "Some nights after I first met you I went to this bar and there was this girl who was all over me. I’m used to this-"

"Oh, yeah, I sure know!", I interrupt him. I sound like an angry housewife. I want to puke my fucking heart out. Why does it hurt when I picture him with whoever ths girl was?

”- so I talked to her. I was in a bad mood. She was with a friend. She was flirting with me. Bla bla bla, she got me hard, I wanted it, she wanted it, I took her with me and fucked her in an alley. She was getting sentimental afterwards and I gave her the wrong number. Turns out that girl couldn’t handle rejection, so she calls my manager and tells him I assaulted and insulted her. Her friend says it’s true and before Ted can do anything about it, The Sun prints my fucking face on their front page, making me look like the asshole of the nation. Another fallen star, you get me. That’s about it. I swear I did none of the things they accuse me of. I just fucked her. That’s it.”

"You just fucked her.", I repeat.

Each of these words hurt more than every cut on my fucking arm. What bothered me the most was not the fact that the press lied about him or the worries about if he’s being honest to me now. No, what bothered and more than this, absolutely fucking hurt me, was knowing that he fucked someone else, who was not me, when he already knew me. And even if we’ve only spent a night together before he did it, I’m so fucking hurt I could cry.

I’m so ashamed of my pathetic reaction. “You just fucked her.”, I say once more. “Fine. Good. I think it’s better if you leave now.”

"What?", Niall shouts. "I just told you the truth. Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?"

"I did.", I whisper. If I spoke louder, my voice would break. I would burst into tears. This is so fucking measly. "But I don’t want you around right now."

"Why?" But then, he realises. And that asshole smiles. The corners of his goddamn mouth curl up, he shakes his head. "You’re angry cause I fucked her."

I press my lips together and stare at him, hoping the disgust in my expression will make him look away. But he keeps his eyes locked with mine, grins, chuckles. “You’re jealous.”

"I’m not!", I yell.

I am. I am, I am, I am. Fuck.

"You’re so jealous because I fucked someone who wasn’t you when I already knew you.", he laughs. He sounds histerical. I’d be scared again if I wasn’t so pissed.

"I have no right to be jealous.", I say, to my brain more than to Niall.

"Let me tell you one thing, Morgan, the reason I went out was because I wanted to get my mind off you. I wanted to distract myself from… compulsively thinking about this girl I met at the club and took home with me. Whom I watched sleeping, too scared to touch her, even if would have fucked every other girl at that oppurtunity, but I just couldn’t use this one, I couldn’t do this to you."

Is he serious?

"I’m not good with words.", he goes on. "And it all happened so fucking quick. But I already knew I wanted you, I was just trying to fight it, because it’s not like me, but who am I, what even am I? I don’t know anymore. The only thing I know is that I want you so much it scares me."

"And you think that this will ease me?", I shout. "You think that this makes anything easier?"

"Nothing is easy if it comes to the two of us. And there’s so much you don’t know."

"Then tell me!", I demand. "Tell me everything."

"I can’t.", he mumbles. "But I’m not asking you to tell me everything, as well. Even if it drives me insane to only think of you when I’m not around. I want to know everything you do, watch your every move. I can’t stand the thought of your life before I met you."

What the fuck is he saying? I can’t take this. My fucking heart hurts so bad, but from something so close to pure happiness it drives me crazy.

"But after you met me you thought it was a good idea to shove your fucking dick into a random girl and see if that helps you forget? Nice."

I wish I could turn off my sarcasm, especially because Niall’s going from sentimental to angry again now.

"Do you really want to get hung up on this, Morgan? Do you really want to be this upset about something to meaningless?"

"Maybe!" I must seem so immature. But I don’t care. I want to jump forward and punch him in his fucking face until it’s not so pretty anymore. Then, kiss the pain away. I want to choke him but I also long for his hands around my own throat. I want to kick him in the stomach to make him feel what I feel like whenever he looks at me.

"And maybe I don’t want to be with you because of that. Maybe I’m not your girlfriend because I can’t take your asshole behaviour. Simple as that.", I explain and shrug. "Now fuck off."

"Uh-uh. I’m not going to leave. You don’t really want me to.", he insists.

"You’re so damn sure of yourself, aren’t you? Well here’s brand new information, Niall, you are not as great as you think!", I shout. "You’re clinging to the good guy you once were but you’re not like him anymore at all, you have become a fucking monster! You disgust me! You annoy me! I am not your caretaker! Neither do I need you to take care of me!"

He keeps quiet now. His thick veins are pulsating beneath his sweaty skin. He soaked his shirt and stares at me like a predator again. He’s grinning. I just want to hit him.

"Forget what I said when you ate me out this morning, I’m sorry for making you feel like you could get a leading part in the horrible novel my life is-"

"I already got the starring role, Morgan, wake the fuck up.", he groans through his teeth.

He’s so fucking right. Shit.

"Forget what I said, though!" I’ve never heard myself this loud before. "If it doesn’t mean anything to you, it means nothing to me."

"But it means everything to me, Morgan! You don’t understand!"

"I do! Even if it’s everything, there’s one thing it’s not, and that is good. I’m not good for you." I exhale, look down on my shaky fingers and try my best not to start crying.

"I’m so much worse.", Niall chuckles. Does he think I’m kidding?

"Are we gonna fight over who’s worse for the other? We should just break this off."

"Break this off?", he repeats and laughs like a fucking maniac. "Break! This! Off? You don’t know what you’re saying, Morgan."

"I sure do, Niall." I say his name like an insult and watch his face turn pale. "I don’t want you?"

"You don’t?", he says. "Liar."

With that word, he steps forward, puts his hand around my throat and pulls me into a hard kiss that keeps me from continueing this useless fight. He shoves me against the bedroom wall, I bump my head but I couldn’t care less.

"You don’t want me?", he mutters between two kisses, putting his thumb on my chin to make me open my mouth. "You don’t want me? I’m a monster? You don’t need me to take care of you? Is that so? Do I disgust you?"

Then, he spits in my mouth. I can’t believe it first, but when I look into his face as he tilts back, a snidely, greedy expression on it, I swallow his saliva and lean forward for another kiss. He turns me on so much I can’t fight it any longer. Even if I try to act as if I was eager to defend myself, by trying to push him away or pinch his nipples, he doesn’t back off, he just laughs at me like the arrogant fucker he is and bites my neck as he presses his crotch against mine, making me feel that our fight got him hard.

"So disgusting, huh?", he groans, choking me while he looks straight into my eyes. "Yet you wish that you were the girl I fucked in the alley."

I turn my head but he slaps my face to make me look back at him. He whistles and says: “This is where it’s at!”

"Ouch. That hurt.", I hiss.

"Good. Now tell me, how badly do you you’d been in her situation?", he demands with a smug grin.

"I’d never want to.", I say. "I’d rather be in her current situation. I bet she gets a lot of money." I try to tease him where I can. And it works.

"Do you wanna get paid for lying?", he asks, tightening his grip around my neck.

"Who says she’s lying?", I mock him. "Maybe she’s honest. Maybe you really insulted and assaulted her."

"Yeah, cause I’m such an asshole, right? Such a monster. Like you said.", he laughs. "Do you want me to insult you, too?"

He’s so fucking insane. And I like it so much. “How come you think that? I’m more of the vanilla type.”, I joke.

"Aw, am I too rough for the little girl?", he asks. "Are you scared I’ll strangle you to death like John Christie?"

He looks so fucking hot. He’s angry, horny, exerted, like a hungry animal on the hunt, so close to kill his brute. His mouth is half open, a tortured smile.

"It’s so hard for me to not just fuck you when you’re such a slut for me.", he grunts.

"I’m not your slut.", I say and it feels like a lie. "I’m just a girl, I never asked for this."

"Oh yes, you are definetely my slut.", he chuckles. "Shall we check if you’re honest? Huh? Do you want me to check if you really don’t want me?"

He takes his hand off my butt and puts it between my legs. He stretches the fabric of my nylon tights until he tears a hole, then shoves my panties to the side to slide his middle finger between my folds.

"You’ve been lying to me.", he says, so amused by my weakness. "You’re so fucking wet for me, you’re dripping."

He taps my clit with his fingertip and I can’t keep myself from moaning. I’m so turned on.

"But maybe… Hm…" he pulls his hand back and puts his finger on my lips, making me lick my juice off as he watches. "Good girl… Anyway, maybe you’re right. Maybe you really don’t want me. Maybe I should just let you go and fuck off like you told me."

He losens his grip and steps back. “No, wait!”, I hear myself crying out. “Niall, please, stay. Stay.”

"Why?", he asks.

"I want you.", I reply. "I want you."

"And what exactly do you want me to do with you now?"

I still want to beat him up, but there’s something quite alike hat I prefer to this, though. “I want you to fuck me.”

"Aw, I see." He nods and winks at me. And then, he grabs my face, squishing my cheeks and it hurts my jaw, but I really don’t care. I want him to hurt me. "Then, for fuck’s sake, be a good girl and let me take the way I want it."

"Okay.", I say, even if it’s hard to talk like this.

"You’ve proven you can be a good girl for me, now do it again."

I nod.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good." He slaps my ass. "Oh shit. Remember what I asked you this morning? I don’t think I need your permission as you simply do not deserve otherwise."

I recall and just nod. I’ll be fine with that, I want it, too.

"Turn around, then.", he commands and I do as I’m told. I turn to the wall and let him push my face against it so I can bend over. "Stick out that ass for me, baby."

He pulls my tights down and grabs both of my butt cheeks with his hands, groaning as he kneads them and starts by softly slapping the left one.

"Goddamnit, you’ve got a thick fucking ass.", he mutters. "I can’t wait to mark it."

He slaps it a little harder, then rubs his still clothed crotch against my naked skin. My panties are still on, too and I feel how I literally soak the fabric.

"Concerning all the things you said, you really do deserve being punished.”, he goes on. It drives me mad that I can’t see him, but I can imagine the expression on his face. Pleased, cocky, greedy.

"Then go ahead.", I say. "Punish me."

He hauls off and brings his flat hand down on my butt so hard I cry out. He laughs at my reaction.

"Overestimated yourself much?", he jokes and spanks me again. My flesh jiggles and I bite my lip not to whimper like a little girl. "You can take that, come on. You like it, don’t lie to me."

I do, more than this, I don’t think anything has ever aroused me as much as Niall grabbing and spanking my ass like this. He’s having a lot of fun.

"Stick it out a little further, slut.", he demands and I obey. The next spank burns so bad I can’t help but rear up a little. He puts his hand on my head immediately.

"Stay down and hold still, I’m not done. Maybe I should make you count, how would you like that? But how can I estimate how many times are enough to get through your head that you belong to me, want me, and have to stay with me?"

He rubs his hard on against me, so impatient I’m sure it takes him a lot of his lacking self control not to take his damn pants off and just fuck me like this right now.

He groans and grabs my hips, then remembers what he just said.

"Count to ten, baby.", he says. I nod and do what I’m told as his hand repeatedly comes down on my ass. I whimper and tremble, but he just laughs.

"Six.", I pant.

"You like that, huh? You know you deserve it."

"Ten.", I finally sigh, wondering how I’m supposed to ever sit again. It hurt so bad, but it’s so fucking good at the same time. This wasn’t much like a punishment to someone who finds so much joy in pain.

"Good girl. You’ve done so well.", he whispers and grabs my ass a last time, to watch it jiggle before he pulls my hair to make me turn around, groaning "I want to look at you when I fuck you."

He pulls down his pants and seeing his cock only adds to my fucking thirst for it to be inside of me. He’s bigger than I thought he’d be, yet just right.

"You haven’t been fucked in a while, right?", he asks while he unzips my dress and opens my bra.

"Uh-uh." I shake my head. He looks at my breasts once they’re exposed, puts his hands on them, softly pinches my nipples and I moan louder than I intented on.

"Don’t worry, babe, Daddy’s gonna make up for this." He smiles and kisses be, biting my lower lip. "I’ll fuck you good."

I feel the tip of his hard as he’s grinding it against my slit. “Please, Niall, I’m-“

"Not like this." He shakes his head, then grabs me by my shoulders and shoves me down on the bed. "I need to be in control."

I’m on my back again, like in the morning, looking up to him. He starts wanking over the sight of my naked body.

I spread my legs, buck my hips, reach out for him. “Come.”, I sigh.

"You want it so bad, I’m almost temped to go away again." He’s lying. He wants me, too, I’ve never seen someone this aroused in my whole life. But he’s having fun teasing me and it definetely works.

"What a shame that would be huh? You’d have t’ get off on yer own."

His fucking accent. “Niall, stop acting like an asshole and fuck me.”

"Beg for it.", he chuckles. "Beg for it, you fucking slut."

"You like to see me suffer, right?", I whimper.

"More than I should.", he groans. "Beg."

"Please…" I’m so impatient now. "Just fuck me already, I’m begging you."

"Oh well, this should do it.", he sighs and finally bends over to get on top of me. He spreads my legs even further and doesn’t even warn me, he just lowers his body and shoves his hard cock into me.

It’s not like I forgot what it felt like, but it’s still different from what I recall. It’s so much better than I thought it would be. Maybe because Niall knows exactly how to move because he’s just used to sex, maybe because I want him so much more than anyone else in this world. My walls are tight around him, I feel every damn nerve in my whole body.

"Feels good, huh?", he groans as he thrusts into me.

"Fuck yes.", I laugh.

"Regret being such a brat to me?"

"Not really."

Again, he grabs my face with his hand as he holds himself up on his elbows. “You should.” He slaps my face and forcefully puts two fingers in my open mouth, making me gag.

"Will. You. Be.", he begings, each word a harder thrust. I’ve never been fucked this rough, a part of me wants to grab him and push him off of me, but I can’t, it’s not like I don’t want him to take me like this. "A. Good. Girl? And. Take. Back. These. Words?"

I desperately nod and he pulls his fingers, back, smirking so pleased with himself that I can’t help but smile back. He steadily thrusts into me, hard, deep and so good, so fucking good that I can’t help but moan like I’m losing my fucking mind. It feels like it. No matter how, Niall keeps pushing my boundaries.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful, Morgan.", he groans. "It’s such a shame I’m ruining you."

Then, he gets up and grabs me by my waist to make me turn around. The sudden, literal emptiness I feel as he’s not inside me anymore is more painful than all those spanks together.

"Get on your stomach.", he says, turning my head so I can see my reflection in my bedroom mirror. I watch as he lays down on my back. He slaps my ass again, spreads my thighs and enter me again.

"Oh fuck, Niall, this is-", I mumble. It feels even better to be fucked in this position. His cock perfectly grinds on my g spot and once Niall’s comfortable, he shoves his hand under my stomach and starts rubbing my clit in addition to his hard thrusts.

"Good, huh?", he chuckles, leading his free hand to my neck. "Look."

He makes me watch our reflection and even though I’d never expected that, we look fucking beautiful like this. His face is covered in sweat, red cheeks, wide eyes. My mascara’s kind of running down my face as I teared up gagging, but I’ve never seen myself this pretty.

With him on top of and inside of me, vulnerable and helplessly delivered to the weirdest, scariest fucking man I ever knew, I feel more alive than ever before. I hear my own heartbeat, hear my faint moans as the pleasure Niall gives me increases up to a point at which I can barely hold still anymore, I’m shaking already, squirming under the weight of his warm body. I feel his hot breath on my shoulder, his fingers around my neck and on my swollen clit.

"Oh god.", I cry out, "Fuck, Ni, this is- I-" I can’t even remember how to properly speak anymore.

"Are you going to cum, babe?", he groans into my ear.

I just nod.

"Don’t close your eyes. Watch."

His reflection smiles at mine and I turn my head to kiss him. He snarls like an animal, bites my lip again and increases his pace. He’s close to his orgasm, too. His thrusts are getting sloppier, his flesh smacks against my butt.

"You’ve never been fucked like this, huh?", he chuckles as if he sensed what I thought before.

"No.", I gasp.

"Your pussy feels so good around my cock, babe.", he groans and kisses my neck while he tightens his grip around it, too. "It’s just perfect. We’re perfect for each other. I love fucking you."

For a split second, I think he said he loved me as he swallowed the second last word to let out a moan, but the sound of it keeps me from feeling weird about my suspicion. I don’t think anything in the world sounds as sexy as boy moan’s. Well, Niall is a man, but nothing about the guy in the mirror seems like a composed, serious adult. He’s totally lost, greedily fucking me.

"Cum for me, little girl."

I let go and do what he tells me to. I squirm, cry out his name, tense, grab the sheets because it feels like I’m falling. But Niall’s there to catch me. He kisses my cheek as he cums, too, with three hard thrusts, releasing himself inside and on my ass as he pulls out. He wraps his arms around my waist and rolls to the side, hugging me from behind. I come down from my high in his arms, still quivering, shaking, panting like crazy.

"Shhh, it’s all good, I got you, I got you.", he chuckles.

"Fuck.", I mumble once I’ve calmed down a little. "I came so hard I think I pulled a muslce or something."

He laughs and kisses my shoulder. We’re sticky, weak, glueing together like we’re melting into each other in the damp sheets.

"I’m glad I did this to you. I fucked you good."

"Not just physically.", I sigh. My head is spinning. I’m so happy he’s holding me. I turn my head and kiss him. This time, soft, calm, sweet. "I’m fucked in the head, too."

"You haven’t given me any yet.", he remarks. "Maybe I should force you to suck me off now, as a reward for cumming so good?"

"No.", I pout.

"Is my little princess too whacked?" He slides his hand back between my legs. He got me so wet and I’m still trembling. My clit is so sensitive now, I flinch as he puts his thumb on it. "Daddy’s got you all worn out."

"Hmhm." I nod.

"I’ll be a nice guy for once.", he sighs. "You’ve been through enough today."

"Thanks.", I laugh as if I really had to thank him for that.

"Yeh, I’m having mercy today."

We stay in bed for a while, not saying a word, until Niall sits up, smacks my ass and says “Food.”

That’s the Niall I imagined as a teenage girl. I never even mentioned that I had his poster on my wall. I better don’t do it. To keep him from being even more arrogant and not to make him believe that I really just want him for his “fame”. I don’t. I just want him. For whatever reason, I just do.

He gives me his shirt, forcing me into the cheesy picture of a couple after sex, but I don’t complain. It smells good, weed with fresh air and his sweat. He puts his pants back on and walks into the kitchen. We brew coffee together and make sandwiches with whatever we find. I haven’t been grocery shopping this week. I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

Niall eats his PB&J sandwich like a little boy. Holding it in both hands, munching, grinning at me.

"Is it good?", I ask him and laugh.

He nods. “Very good.”

Watching him eat, topless, in my kitchen like it’s his home, wearing his shirt and still feeling the burn he left between my weak legs, I realise that I’ve already made the sacrifice he was talking about. I sacrificed something bad to something objectively good.

"Is she your girlfriend?", I hear the paps’ voices echo in my head.

Maybe I am? I don’t know. All I know for now is that whatever I am,whatever he is, we are together. And that’s all that matters.


	11. Portents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t fret, precious, I’m here
> 
> step away from the window
> 
> go back to sleep
> 
> Safe from pain and truth and choice and other poison devils,
> 
> see, they don’t give a fuck about you
> 
> like I do
> 
> I’ll be the one to protect you from your enemies and all your demons
> 
> I’ll be the one to protect you from a will to survive and a voice of reason
> 
> I’ll be the one to protect you from your enemies and choices
> 
> I must isolate you
> 
> Isolate you and save you from yourself

She’s fast asleep, curled up in the sheets and she looks like a darker kind of angel. He can’t keep his hands off her, hoping she won’t wake as he drags his fingers down her curved side, from her ribs to her ankles. Her soft skin and its scent remind him of how long he hasn’t taken anything to help coping with the fire she set inside of him. But he can’t move for now. He just sits on her bed in the middle of the quiet room, in the pale morning light, breathing too heavily. He’s so nervous, so impatient, so fucking desperate, but mostly just awed by his affection for her.

No sign of the obstinate, stubborn girl she is with her eyes open. And when she looks at him, she doesn’t know what she sees. So it’s good to have her like this for now. Quiet, naked, vulnerable. He pulls his hand back because his demons arise beneath his state of plain yearning, a proof of his first addiction and his other addiction: Wanting her. But the monster inside of him has another idea of possessing her heart than just lying next to her and holding her close, lying to her by making her feel safe when she doesn’t know that she couldn’t be less secure than in the arms of the boy who wishes so badly for her to fall in love with him.

It shines through when he fucks her. His darkness. It shined through his eyes when he got up in the middle of the night and went to her bathroom, stared at his reflection and started crying, for the first time in years. He couldn’t hold back those tears, couldn’t pull himself together. He was so ashamed, so triggered to smash the mirror so he wouldn’t have to bear the sight of the weak slave to a broken mind he had become, but he just stood there, watched as he salty pearls ran down his cheeks and covered his mouth with his damp hand to muffle his pathetic sobs.

He should turn away, get up, get dressed and go to the gym. To his flat first, though. His body needed a line just as much as his brain. And all that before she wakes up. That’s probably impossible, but he has to try. The thought of not being there with her when she opens her eyes after that night, the sole thought of not being with her no matter what she does, made him just as sad as angry. More than just being a part of it, he wishes he was her life.

He finally manages to take his eyes off of her and puts on yesterday’s clothes. He finds a little pad on her desk and leaves her a note, just in case. Then, he walks to the door. He spots it on a hook at the wall.

And it’s silly and sick and fucked to the bone, but he’s too weary to deny the demons at least a taste of what they crave.

Just in case. Just in case she doesn’t see the note, thinks he left and goes outside to look for him. Just in case the paps found out where she lived. The thought of what the newspapers may have published today makes him sick and only adds to his determination. Just in case.

Just in case, he takes the keys off the hook, opens the door, walks out and locks it.

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

"I’m sorry if you woke up before I could get back to you. Wait for me. I miss you.", I read out loud.

A bit over the top? Maybe. I smile though. It’s horrible. I don’t know what I’m becoming. I feel happy. Light. The scars on my lower arm are still red and swollen, but they don’t hurt anymore. The only pain I feel is a slight burn on my ass, but that’s quite enjoyable. It just reminds of the last night. The fight and how it ended. And how good he fucked me. Jesus Christ. This man just drives me insane. But different than the voices, so different from what I see my therapist for.

I walk into the kitchen and stretch, yawn, stare out of the small window and see nothing but Niall’s face. Where is he?

I’m tempted to call him, go after him, find him, but I stay where I am, eat an apple and think of the first morning we’ve spent together. I’d never thought I’d end up here.

In the fucking limbo of love.

That’s when I hear the sound of keys turning in the lock of my front door. I stumble out the kitchen and see Niall entering my flat, wet hair glued to his forehead and a smile on his pale face.

"Did you t-", I begin but he answers my question by putting my keys back on the hook on the wall.

"I just wanted you to be safe.", he quickly adds.

"You locked the doors from outside?"

"No?" He laughs. "Why would I? I just didn’t want to wake you so I took the keys in case I’d be back before you wake up. Which I was hoping for."

For a moment I thought he had locked me up in my own flat, but he just lent the keys and left the lock open. Why would he do that, anyway? Yes, he’s possesive, but only a freak would do that.

On the other hand… No. I forbid myself to think about the possibility any furhter wand let him wrap his arms around me to pull me into a hard kiss.

"Did you miss me, babe?", he asks and grabs my ass.

"Ouch!", I whince.

"Oh, I almost forgot.", he chuckles, but still slaps the bruised cheeks. "Someone got spanked yesterday."

I bite unintentionally bite my lip at the memory. Niall looks drained. “Where have you been?”, I ask. He’s either been working out or on some shit I don’t even want to ask him about. Again the last bit of sanity inside my crazy mind demands that I act responsible and call him out on the whole drug thing. But he says “I’ve been to the gym and got us some breakfast.”

The size of his pupils convict him of lying.

"Niall, you’re-", I begin, but he mutes me with another kiss.

"Sh, sh, sh. I’m okay."

Just now I notice the Starbucks bag he brought.

"Oh, you’ve bought breakfast at the competition.", I laugh. My boss at the café constantly complains about Starbucks. "Honestly their stuff tastes way better than what we sell, though."

Niall just shrugs. “I got anything I thought you’d like.”

He walks into the kitchen, once again moving so natural it seems like he lives here and puts the bag and the coffee he got on the table.

"I showered at the gym but I’m soaked in sweat again.", he sighs and takes off his shirt. I can’t look away and as I watch him pulling the shirt over his head, his stomach muscles flexed, thick veins by his v-lines, one word crosses my mind: Mine.

This body, this boy, this man, could be mine. All mine.

Or is he already?

"What are you looking at?", he asks me as if he didn’t know. He flexes his arms to show off what he’s been working for at the gym and winks at me. "I’m a fucking beast, huh?"

He’s, of course, joking. Despite it all, he’s still kind of lanky.

I just laugh and sit down to unpack the goods he got.

"I got to go to work this afternoon.", I sigh. "I don’t want to."

"I’ll call your boss and tell you to give you a day off.", he suggests and sits down in front of me. It’s hard to focus on my decision whether I should eat a chocolate muffin or a croissant when he wears nothing but his much too low sweatpants. Does my body confuse him like that, too? I just put on a shirt and some boring cotton panties. I never worried this much about looking pretty for someone, I always just wanted to be pretty for myself, but Niall changed that. I want his affection and assurance. But I can’t just ask him if he thinks I look pretty right now? This would be pathetic.

What the fuck is happening to me?

"No, I already took a day off before the weekend." I mumble and pick the croissant. "I can’t do this that often anymore. I’m gonna lose my job."

"You don’t need a job anymore.", he then says and grins at me as if his words were supposed to make me happy.

"What do you mean?" I don’t quite understand, even if I can imagine what he’s talking about.

"I’ve got shit loads of money." He shrugs. "I can buy you whatever you want, whatever you like, take you wherever you want to go. You don’t ever have to work again."

"Yeah, because we’ll stay together forever. Was this a proposal?" I sarcastically say and shake my head. There’s no way I’ll live off him like that. I need my independece, my freedom. And my own money. I suddenly feel ashamed of wanting to appeal to him so much. He acts like a proper dick right now and I’m more than offended. I put the croissant down and add: "You’re not my sugar daddy."

He just smirks and sips on his coffee. “I’m offering you the best life a girl could ask for.”

He doesn’t sound much convinced of his own words for some reason. I shake my head again and say: “You’re insulting me right now, are you aware of that? I’m perfectly fine with my job. I don’t need your money, I don’t need your luxury.”

"Yeah, you just like me for my cock.", he chuckles.

"No?" I’m getting a little louder now. I wipe the croissant crumbs off my lips. I’m not hungry anymore. "I don’t just like you for your cock. I like you for the way you smile when you’re not being a cocky asshole. I like you for the way you kiss me and for coming over when I told you not to because you sensed that I needed you. I like you for being so weird, I like you for scaring me sometimes, even if it freaks me out. I like you for the whole new drug you put me on when you look at me, I like you for being Niall, not Niall Horan from that stupid boyband."

He listened to me with his eyes wide open and blushed after the second sentence. Just now I realise that I basically just told him that I’m having the worst, worst, worst, pathetic, dumb and just wrongest crush on him. I gave him what he wanted. Once again. What Niall wants, Niall gets.

"You’re so in love with me.", he then says, so content with himself that I want to punch him in his fucking face. "You love me so much."

"Go fuck yourself, Niall.", I groan and leave the room before I get weak again.

After spending a few hours on the internet, with Niall watching me from my bed, he insists on taking me to work. He asked me if he could smoke in my kitchen and I, of course, said no.

So as soon as we leave my flat, he lights a blunt he kept in the pockets of his sweatpants.

"Oh, you look so much like the rich celebrity you are, don’t you?", I hiss.

"That’s the secret.", he jokes, not in the slightest affected by my cold behaviour. Is he just playing or does he really not care? He puts his arm around my shoulder and blows the smoke right in my face. I shove him off me and we almost fall down the stairs.

He holds my arm to keep me from tripping. “Be careful!”, he shouts. “You could have hurt yourself.”

"Like you cared.", I pant, still paralyzed from the shock. I point to my ass, but Niall says "No. That’s different. That’s very different, Morgan. I need you to be more careful, okay?"

"Okay?"

"No, really. Don’t fucking fall down the stairs. Don’t do anything stupid in genereal."

"Niall, what the fuck are you trying to tell me?"

"I’m just saying I want you to take care."

He’s wearing a large pullover I lent him, as it’s a little colder today. We listen to Nine Inch Nails in his car and I wish it wouldn’t be so fucking sexy to listen to him singing along to ‘Closer’.

He grins at me and I try to stay serious, but I can’t. “I hate you.”, I laugh, but I don’t mean it. Not in the slightest. And this is what I hate about it.

I can’t remember I ever told him where the café I work at is, but he knows the way. Maybe I just forgot. Maybe he made the assumption before. I don’t know.

"Thanks.", I say before I get out of the car.

"M-Morgan?", he stutters.

"What?"

"Get back into the car. Don’t go to work."

"What the fuck?" Is he serious?

"Take another day off. Really Morgan, I’m begging you. Stay home with me today."

"Don’t be so selfish." Should it flatter me that he is so keen on spending time with me? There’s something in the way he looks at me that worries me. "I have to go to work."

"Remember what I told you, I got enough money, I-"

"No, Niall.", I hiss. "No way. I’m going to work. Goodbye."

I’m close to slamming the car door, but Niall shouts: “Morgan! Wait!”

"What now?" I roll my eyes. Is he going to tell me to "take care" again like he was my father? Maybe I should stop calling him Daddy. Or not. Fuck this entire kink shit.

"Please don’t read the newspaper today."

Oh no. What did they write? I feel a horrible cramp in the pit of my stomach, my head gets hot, I shiver. Is there anything he’s trying to hide from me? A shocking thruth about him The Sun revealed, after they printed these lies? What if they weren’t lies… No, I believe him. But what is he talking about now? Did they print the pictures of me?

"Are you kidding right now?", I ask, my voice sounds so fucking weak I’m ashamed.

"Morgan, please. Do me this one favour. It’s for your own good.", he begs.

"Did they write something about you that you don’t want me to find out?", I ask.

"No. I promise you that this is not the case.", he quickly answers. "But still, please don’t-"

"Niall, you’re creeping me out again.", I honestly confess. There’s the weirdo I should be scared of.

Looking at me with those piercing blue eyes, trying to boss me around. Me!

"Morgan. One favour. Please."

"Fine!", I give in. "I’m not going to read the newspaper."

I slam the door and walk off, knowing he watches me. He’s probably still sitting in the car outside the café when I put my uniform on and got behind the counter, reaching out for a fresh printed issue of The Sun. I’m not a liar, but sometimes I don’t stick to my promises. And most of all, I’m not going to do everything he tells me.

"I’m an independent woman.", I tell myself as I unfold the newspaper. "I don’t need him." But that is a plain lie.

But before I get to look at the front page, my boss walks out of his office.

"Morning, Nathan.", I say and nod.

"Not feeling well, huh?", he asks. It takes me a while to realise that he probably already read it. Saw it. "You’re in The Sun."

He points at the issue in my hands.

"Nathan, I haven’t even read it yet, I-"

"It’s okay. I’m just… Wow. You’re dating a celebrity now. Congrats." He shakes his curly head. "I am truly awed. You got yourself a proper, how do you ladies call it, babe."

He turns his back on me. I don’t understand what the fuck is going on. If I didn’t know better I’d say he sounds jealous, but this just can’t be, can it?

"Nathan, listen, I felt really bad, I couldn’t go to work and I thought you were okay with this."

"I was okay with this! That’s not it, Morgan. That’s really not the problem.", he says without looking at me. He brews coffee for noone. There’s not a single customer in the damn Cuppa Coffee.

"Then what is the problem?", I ask. The newspaper in my hands seems to be on fire. I almost drop it. It’s like whatever words await me already scream at me from the pages. "Nathan!"

"Well, Morgan, believe it or not, I like you. And I’m kind of, I don’t know, surprised? All of sudden, you’re going out with a guy! And not just any guy, no! You got yourself Niall Horan! All of sudden! You were a cold hearted bitch to every guy out there and now-"

Hold up. “Hold up!” Hold. The. Fuck. Up. Did he just call me a bitch?

I grab Nathan’s shoulder to make him turn around again. “I hope I misheard.”, I hiss and stare into his brown eyes. I’d like to grab him by the collar of his black shirt.

"No you didn’t.", he says. I’m close to punching my own boss in the face. But I’m not going to let anyone call me a bitch.

"Wow.", I say. "Nice."

"Well, I suggest you don’t read the article. They’re kind of mean to you.", he says and shoves my hand off his shoulder. Is this the nice boss I used to like to work for? Well, most of the time at least? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that he probably just treated me so well because he expected me to fuck him for that sooner or later. I’m so fucking done with men. "They’re making you look boring as hell. But one line in the article was probably right."

"And which one?", I defiantly ask.

"They said that Mr Niall Horan’s gonna get bored of you sooner or later, too. Because he uses women. He treats them like trash." Nathan sounds like a stubborn little school boy. I really want him to shut up. I can’t believe this is really happening. I’m so mad.

"Oh really? You know him so well, don’t you?", I laugh. As if I really knew Niall. As if I had the right to act like I do… My anger turns into sadness.

Don’t fucking cry, don’t fucking cry.

I wish I was still numb. I wish I didn’t feel anything.

"I would have treated you so well!", Nathan shouts and drops the coffee, spilling the hot beverage on my shoes. It burns, but I couldn’t care less. "But of course girls like you go for guys like him. Have fun being betrayed. Have fun being lied to. Have fun being played like the whore you are."

That’s it. I wish I had the strength to take the knife I use to cut cake with off the counter and ram it into my bosses chest. But all I can do is take off my apron, toss it to the wet floor and say: “I’m done here.”

Is this what Niall wanted? Well he sure as hell didn’t want it to end like this. But that’s how I quit my job. I’m not going to work for this goddamn asshole anymore.

Two girls walk in before I leave the café.

"Is that her?", one of them whispers. She’s got curly, blonde hair.

"Oh my god.", the other one says. "Yes. Fuck. She’s actually kind of pretty."

"Yeah, I didn’t think so."

I hope they don’t see that I start crying right when I step on the street. It started raining, nobody who walks past me will notice my tears. I can’t hold them back anymore. I muffle my sobs with my shaky hand. I left The Sun in the café but I really don’t want to read it anymore anyway. Niall got what he wanted. I’m so mad. But even sadder. I’m shaking. I feel so bad.

I’m so tempted to do it again. I look at my scars. Is it worth it? No,of course it isn’t. But I’m so fucking helpless right now, the thought of turning the ache in my soul into actual pain soothes me. It’s like that would give me permission to feel this way. Any other girl would be lucky to get attention from the media, no matter how. At least that’s why I think. Maybe I don’t even deserve Niall. Maybe I’m not worthy of what he could give me because I don’t give a shit about his wealth at all. What I do give a shit about is his temper. His addiction. The way he touches me. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe what he have isn’t that special after all.

I feel like everyone I pass is turning their head after and staring at me. I wonder if they talk about me, laugh about me. I walk faster, I can’t feel my feet anymore.

"Morgan? Morgan! Morgan hey!"

I’ve never hated the sound of my name as much as now, coming from the mouth of what I refer to as my best friend. I’m tempted to keep on walking, but my body reacts before my brain considers ignroing her. I can’t be that unfriendly, even if Lucy would probably understand. She knows my moods. She doesn’t know about the extent of what those moods result in, but she was always supportive, at least she tried to be.

It’s just hard being friends with someone who’s always happy. No matter the weather, no matter what happened, Lucy always finds a reason to smile, and that secretly disgusted me ever since. But I was just glad to no be alone in the beginning and now, we both accept not seeing each other too often, knowing if push comes to shove, we’ll be there for each other.

"Morgan!", she repeats, even if I’ve already stopped walking. I hear her approaching. She stood in front of a little bookshop I sometimes go to, too, and now she almost trips over kerbside running towards me. "Morgan, why didn’t you tell me?"

She pulls me into a hug faster than I can emotionally protect myself from the icky sweetness.

"I’m so happy for you, this is amazing! I’m so sorry for what they wrote, but, oh my god, you got yourself a boyfriend!" Her voice is too high pitched and she sounds kind of honeyed.

"He’s not my boyfriend.", I defend myself, even though I know it’s useless.

"Not?" She steps back and looks at me, about to say something else when she sees that I’ve been crying. It’s still raining, but not that bad anymore. "Morgan, are you- Are you okay?"

I fucking wish I could just nod and walk off. Or stay for some boring smalltalk if she wants me to, but what would I tell her? That I just quit my job because my boss was a sexist asshole who called me a bitch? That the guy she calls my boyfriend is taking over my life and it scares me? That I cut again? That I’m more confused than ever before in my life?

Is that even possible?, seems like something she would say. More confused? Oh dear. Come here and let me hug you again.

No pair of arms around my neck can cure me. Except for Niall’s maybe. But they’re both heaven and hell at once. The place I’m running from and my shelter. The thoughts of him get too strong. My throat’s too tight. And I’m just human. It’s commonly known that if someone asks “Have you been crying?” and you were, you will start crying again. It’s an unwritten law for our pathetic species.

So I just nod and start sobbing again. This is the first time my best friend sees me crying. Why did I have to walk past her anyway? It’s so uncomfortable to meet friends in public when you didn’t plan on it. And I rarely ever plan on meeting Lucy.

"Come here!", she says, like I thought she would. "Let me hug you again."

She even kisses my cheek and I know her dark lipstick’s leaving a mark on my skin. She smells of expensive perfume and wet dog. She must’ve been helping her mum this morning.

"Are you lovesick? Or is it because of how they called you?", she wants to know.

"I haven’t even read the article.", I confess. "It’s just,- Nathan, my boss, he-"

Before I manage to puke out the truth, I hear another voice calling my name. And this time, I like the sound.

"Morgan!"

It’s Niall. I’m surprised to see him and watching him getting closer in the drizzle, still in sweatpants, with his blue eyes wide open and glued to me, I get the usual cramps. Not butterflies, not butterflies, not butterflies.

"Oh my god.", Lucy whispers. Her jaw drops and I inhale the scent of the gum she’s been chewing. Cinnamon, as usual. "That’s him."

"Morgan, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?", Niall shouts before he even gets to me. He seems angry, but rather worried. "I’ve been looking for you!"

He pulls me out of Lucy’s grip and presses my head against his chest instead. “I was looking for you!”, he repeats. “You forgot your phone in my car. Why weren’t you at work? Are you crying?”

"I was-", I mumble, but then a more important question crosses my mind. "You were at the Cuppa Coffee?"

"Yeah, I talked to your boss." Niall cups my face in his big hands and I watch a raindrop run down nis neck. "Why are you crying, babe?"

I know Lucy is watching, just like the other people who walk in and out of the bookshop.

"And didn’t he say anything?", I ask on. "He didn’t mention that I quit?"

"You did?" At first it seems as if Niall wouldn’t bother to hide how happy those news make him, but then he squints. "Why? What happened?"

My bottom lip is shaking and I wonder if I should tell him. What will he do if he finds out? I’m so mad at Nathan, so fucking mad. I’ve never been treated like this before. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. I wish I had the strength to go back and punch him in the face.

Lucy is listening as I decide to tell Niall the truth, subliminally sensing that there’ll be consequences. Consequences my anger and the part of me that wants revenge will be more than just pleased with.

"Nathan read the newspaper and he couldn’t handle it.", I begin.

"What do you mean?", Niall asks. He’s so nervous. He really wants to know what I got to say.

"He seemed jealous. He was pissed because I’m going out with you and-"

"You’re my girfriend.", Niall quietely interrupts me, gnashing his teeth. "Of course he is jealous."

I hear a rapt sigh slipping from Lucy’s plum lips. She thinks Niall is cute. Of course she does. Of course she is… jealous. In this very moment, it strucks me like a bolt of lightning. People’s grudge might mainly emerge from envy, not just from inexplicable disfavour and their resentment towards Niall’s recent behaviour in public.

"Anyway", I continue, feeling the corners of my mouth curl up to a smirk that sure as hell looks very evil, "He started to insult me. He really hurt me, Niall. He called me a bitch. I’ve never-"

"He what?" Niall’s voice cracks. He lets go of me, clenches his fists and asks again: "He did what?"

"He called me a bitch. He was so mean." I sound like the worst rat in the whole word, but I like it. I love seeing Niall like this. So tense, so angry. I can almost hear his heart racing. His wrath isn’t directed towards the usual nothingness. He’s mad at the one who hurt me. My enemy. Our enemy. And I love to antagonize him.

"Well, that was the first and the last time he did that.", Niall says, makes his knuckles crack and grabs my arm. "Come with me. We’ll sort this out my way."

Lucy’s mouth is at full expand. “Oh my god!”,she mumbles again. “Oh my god! Morgan, please-“

She reaches out for me, but Niall pulls me away, not paying attention to her at all. Lucy should be scared by Niall’s aggresive behaviour, but she seems absolutey awed. She probably thinks he’s some kind of hero, about to make the bad guy pay for what he did to his girl.

"See you around Morgan!" she yells after me. "Take care! I love you!"

"Goodbye Lucy, see you soon!", I reply.

Niall’s grunting as he walks down the street with his hand around my wrist.

"Tell me what he said exactly.", he demands, not noticting that he hurts me.

I repeat all I can remember. The closer we get to the café, the more I feel my ardour fade. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Considering how angry Niall supposedly gets, how brutal he can get, I suddenly feel scared for Nathan.

"Ni, wait!", I say. "You’re not going to beat him up, are you? There’s customers in the café and-"

"Baby, I just want to talk to him!" His smile is mad and he’s creeping me out again. "I’ll have a normal face to face conversation with this man, okay?"

I know that Niall’s lying. He isn’t even really trying to make me believe it. I hate myself for thinking that right before we enter the Cuppa Coffee, but I guess this is him. My psychotic celebrity boyfriend.

Niall opens the door and pulls me in. The girls who came in as I left look up and their eyes widen at the sight of Niall.

"I told you!", the curly one says.

"No shit.", the other girl whispers.

Nathan looks at Niall, at me, and back to Niall. He swallows hard and puts the towel in his hand to the side. He doesn’t know what’s next. Neither do I. Both of us can only guess. And I guess it’s not going to end well for Nathan’s freshly shaved face.

"Ni, please.", I beg again, pulling my arm back. Niall stands in the middle of the café, just staring at my ex boss like a bull in the arena. His heavy breathing drown the jazz in the background.

"You again.", Nathan says, trying to come off calm, when I can see the fear in his eyes from where I stand. "Do you want to order something?"

Oh shit. Is he trying to be funny? He didn’t tell Niall what happened, which was bad enough, but now he adds to my boyf- to Niall’s anger by pretending he can’t guess the reason he returned. With me. The rain ruined my make-up, my hair is a mess. My clothes are sticky and I’m tempted to scratch my skin, but I can’t move.

I watch Niall walking towards the counter, slow, too fucking airy not to be intimidating. He stops and rests his hands on the counter, drumming his fingers to a beat in his head.

"I think you forgot to mention something.", he then says in a relaxed, but way too friendly tone.

Nathan swallows hard and looks at me. “Look Morgan, I’m sorry-“, he begins, but Niall raises his arm to interrupt him.

"Uh-uh!", he laughs. "You don’t talk to her.", he then groans, slamming his fist down on the wood. "You don’t talk to her ever again, do you hear me?"

"I’m deeply sorry.", Nathan stutters.

"Oh, you will be.", Niall chuckles and inhales deeply. "Believe me, you will."

The girls seem close to losing their mind. The dark haired one nearly chokes on her cake. I wish they just left. And I wish Niall would turn around and let it be, too.

Again, I say his name, both a question and a warning, but he doesn’t listen.

"Listen, Sir,-", Nathan stammers. I’m pleased seeing him like this, there’s no denying. But the way Niall’s standing in front of the counter, the way his chest raises, the tension in this room, outweigh the glee.

"No, you listen.", Niall says and even if I can’t see his face I know he’s grinning. He speaks fluently for once, not even stopping to breathe properly. "See, I understand. I really do. A banal, common man like you who enjoys smooth jazz and occasional weekend trips to shitty beaches probably can’t help himself if it comes to beautiful women like Morgan. I understand that you like her, yes, and even if the sole thought of you only wasting a single minute of your sorry life thinking about her makes me want to throw up on my a meal I had three years ago, I guess I got to accept that. I know she’s mine."

I hear the girls gasp and the ache inside of my body increases. My limbs are no longer part of me it seems. I’m dizzy, helpless, yet way too eager to see Niall lose it and make Nathan pay. Am I a bad person? Am I truly that evil?

"I’m so sorry.", Nathan says, but I can tell that he isn’t. Why would he be sorry? Nobody changes their mind so quickly if it comes to those things. It’s not like he stopped being an asshole just because he’s afraid Niall might hurt him. Hurt him because he hurt me.

"Are you?", Niall laughs. "Well, I don’t think so. You know, nobody treat Morgan like this and gets away with it." The way he talks about me, as if I wasn’t in the same room, both upsets and delights me. I could have perfectly sorted it out for myself, but the argument with Nathan wasn’t my only problem. There was the press and the paps and the fear and all the other feelings I never dealt with before, overwhelming me in addition to Nathan’s horrible behaviour towards me.

"Tell him, Morgan.", Niall suddenly demands and turns to me. He looks more than a drug addict than ever before. I wonder if he took anything when he was going to get back to- where did he plan on going while I was at work anyway? Back to my place? "Tell him what you think of him."

"Well-", I inhale deeply. "Nathan, I’m more than just shocked-"

"Morgan, please, I-"

"Shut the fuck up!", Niall yells without looking at Nathan. "Listen to Morgan! I told you not to speak to her. You keep your fucking mouth shut and listen to her!"

The curly girl gets up from her chair. “I think we should leave.”, she whispers, as if she owed me an explanation for why she and her friend escape this situation. I’d do the same if I was in her place.

Watching other people fight always made me want to shoot myself in the face, actually. I was always embarassed by it, I knew nothing as uncomfortable as men shouting at each other and women pretending to be dependant little children who keep saying “Stop, please!” in whiny, weak voices, degrading themselves as if it was still the 14th century. But right now, I feel like I actually understand how they felt. I’m empowered. Even if I’m speaking in a steady voice, telling Nathan how insulting it was when he called me a bitch, I feel like I’m talking to a voice. My words echo in my head, come back at me, louder than before.

And Niall’s anger’s taken up the whole room. Nathan is scared and I’m actually afraid he’ll call the police. He has every right in the world to do it. Niall is threatening him, with his body, his gestures, the way he laughs even if things are more than just serious.

The girls leave and as soon as they’re out and I’m done explaining Nathan that I never want to come back ot the Cuppa Coffee. It’s silent in the room now. Niall’s still looking at me, proud, but not satisfied yet. His hands are shaking. He winks at me and mouths “Good girl”.

"Was that it?", Nathan finally dares to ask.

"I think so.", Niall says and grabs a cupcake from the counter. "Mind if I take this? I could pay, but I think you know that."

I roll my eyes and exhale as if I had held my breath for days. Is it over? Niall really managed to keep calm. I’m happy. Reliefed. I reach out to take Niall’s hand.

"This one’s good.", he munches and takes another bite of his stolen good. "Chocolate. Too bad nobody’s gonna want to buy this crap if you don’t work here anymore."

Does he really think that people actually cared for who served them? Does he believe I’m special enough to be the reason for people to come here? Despite the fact he looks like an inmate, I almost cringe at how cute he can be.

I then turn to Nathan, trying to make my last few steps through the Cuppa Coffee count. “Goodbye.”, I say. Niall and I are almost at the door. It’s quiet, too quiet. I should have seen it coming. I could have presaged it. I should have known better. I should have kept talking. Should have pulled Niall to the door a little quicker. Should have refrained from giving that asshole Nathan one last, dramatic look. Because right before I’m about to open the door to the rainy town, I can clearly hear Nathan muttering something he thought neither Niall nor me would percieve:

"Goodbye, whore. Have fun getting fucked, fucked over and dumped by that cunt."

Niall and I stop. Time freezes. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. FUCK.

And then, it happens. “Here we go.” Niall turns his head. He smiles with an actual spark in his mad eyes, as if one of his dearest wishes just came true. He pulls his hand out of mine, stretches and crosses the room with three steps. “You should have kept that to yourself.”

I watch as he climbs over the counter and punches Nathan straight in the face. I can hear his nose ridge crack. He stumbles back against the coffee machine. Blood’s streaming down his face.

I am paralyzed. I don’t feel sorry for Nathan. And that’s what bothers me to most. I’m pleased. I enjoy it. I must be a bad person. It’s not like I didn’t know I’m kind of immune if it comes to positive feelings, but the extent of glee that overcomes me due to Niall’s aggression and Nathan’s suffering is scary. Of course I’m afraid, too, of Niall. Because he laughs as he grabs Nathan by his shoulders and tosses him against the wall.

"You couldn’t have waited like, twenty seconds until we’re out, to make sure we wouldn’t hear that, could you?", he cackles. "Fuck, you’re about the dumbest fucking piece of shit I’ve ever laid hands on."

"Please, I didn’t mean it-", Nathan whines.

"That’s what you sad about calling my girl a bitch, too. I don’t believe you anymore." Niall laughs. I see his muscles flex through his shirt. He’s dangerous. I’m more aware of that than I was. But right now, I like it. A part of me feels slightly responsible for Nathan. A part of me wants to tell Niall to stop. But I just stand there and watch as he punches him a second time.

"I don’t think I’ll get a proper apology from you because you’re just a liar.", he shouts. Finally, Nathan tries to fight back, but Niall grabs his neck and shoves him to the side. Even if Nathan’s taller than Niall, he’s not standing a chance against him. Niall is too aggressive, too mad at him. He works out, he knows how to make his punches count.

He moves like an animal. Driven by anger, yet controlled and secure about his every step.

Glass breaks, mugs shatter.

"As long as you fight back, I’m not going to stop!", Niall hysterically laughs at Nathan’s pathetic attempts of hitting him. "God, I’d love to fucking kill you."

That was a bit too much of Niall. I swallow. He probably didn’t mean it. I know how powerful his temper is.

"But I’ll be okay with smashing that face." With those words, he grabs Nathan by the back of his head and rams his kneecap straight into his already bloody face. I hear bones crack again and I know Nathan’s nose is broken. As soon as Niall lets go of it, he faints. I don’t see him anymore as he disappears behind the counter, but I hear his body dropping to the floor.

"Holy fuck.", I whisper. I feel like the ride I’ve been on ended in a horrible crash and I’m burning. It’s like the wagon of this roller coaster of spitefulness and revenge derailed. Niall just literally knocked him out. A quiet voice in my head whispers "He could be dead. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe Niall just killed him."

I watch as Niall kicks Nathan, hissing in a thick accent: “If you call the police,- I swear, if you tell anyone who’s responsible for yer new face, yeh, if you only give them a hint, I swear I will come back and end this. Keep yer mouth shut.”

Then, he turns to me and smiles. He’s actually bleeding from his nose. Seems as if Nathan didn’t miss his target once or twice. “We can leave now.”, he proudly says and reaches out for the box of tissues next to the fruit bowl, wiping the blood off his hands. “I don’t like men’s blood.”, he chuckles and winks at me.

Then, he slowly walks around the counter, his eyes locked with mine. “Babe, are you scared of me?”, he asks as he reaches me

I nod.

"Don’t be scared. I had to do this. He treated you so bad, babe, didn’t you hear what he said?" He talks to me like I’m a little girl, but I feel small and vulnerable anyway right now, so I can’t do anything but whisper "But Niall", before he puts his finger on my lips and hushes me.

"Sh, babygirl. I did this for you and you’re gonna be okay with it. I can’t rewind time. Some things have to be done. And I know you could have done that alone. I know you don’t need me to protect you. But I want to. I need to. For me."

"But Niall-", I repeat despite his finger. "You could have killed him-"

"Don’t be silly, Morgan. He’ll be fine. He’s not even unconscious. He’s just a weak piece of shit who deserved to be punched in the face."

Niall wraps his arm around me and kisses my temple. “I love you.”, he then says. “I love you so much.”

That’s it.

The three words. The three fucking words that feel like a wave of dark water drowning me in an ocean of absolute damnation, yet like a fucking bomb of cherry juice, summer rain, breathtakingly good orgasms, old Incubus songs and the few other things that make me feel a little better blowing up in my racing heart.

He could have punched me, beaten me up like Nathan, I would have prefered that to hearing these three words.

I would have prefered any pain in the whole world to the stinging of the impure ulcer growing in my chest, screaming words like venom.

I think, I think, I think, they yell at the criminal, the drug addict, the unpredictable fucking monster in the vessel of an angelic looking man next to me from my inside as I walk out the door on legs so weak they might just break, I think, I think, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know I love you, too.

I love you, too. I love you.

Too.

I love you.

The sound of Nathan’s body dropping won’t fade, it only gets louder and louder. I remember a song they once played at this dark, haunting gothic club I went to some months ago.

"Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythym of the war drum.", I mumble. That was its name. Why do I feel like a war just began?

"What?", Niall asks. "Babygirl, are you okay? You seem a little dizzy. I’ll take you home."

Was he waiting for a proper response to his words? He probably can hear the beast inside of me anyway. It’s screaming at the top of its dry lungs. Howling with blood in his throat:

I love you, too.


	12. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was running into you equal to running away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you start reading - the songs in the club scene are
> 
> All Night by Parov Stelar ( the melancholic one when Morgan dances alone )
> 
> Bassline by Miss Kittin
> 
> Swimming Pools by Kendrick Lamar
> 
> Ladi Dadi by Steve Aoki ( Niall’s arrival )
> 
> thought you might wanna listen to them to make the most of the club experience

I’m incapable of coming to terms with what happened a few hours ago. Niall chose to take me to his place and we hurried to get in. As soon as he closed his apartment door, I shoved him off of me.

"What’s wrong with you?", he shouted. "I did this for you. I did this because this guy treated you like shit and you deserved vengeance!"

"You could have killed him!", I yelled, running my shaky fingers through my hair over and over again. It’s not like I don’t appreciate Niall’s commitment. It’s just a bit over the top. More than a bit. He went too far. And even though the image of Nathan’s bloody, sorry face satisfies me, I know that this kind of revenge was not appropriate.

I’m still asking myself one question though.

What feels worse concerning the trouble Niall got us into? The fact he broke a law and the broken nose of my ex boss? Or the fact that it pleased me just as much as it pleased Niall and the severity of his aggression drive makes the sane me want to run away?

It’s been four hours since he brought me here and I’m sitting on his bed, tucked up knees, swollen eyes. I don’t know what he’s doing. I hear him walking from one room into the other, sparing the bedroom because I asked him to leave me alone.

Being back here makes me nervous. I remember waking up and thinking I had slept with him. Now, my entire body’s marked by his hands. And so is my soul.

I hear him approaching the door. He stops. Seconds pass. Then, he knocks.

"Morgan, can I come in?"

"No.", I snarl. "I told you to stay outside."

"This is my bedroom.", he says. "Please let me talk to you. I need to talk to you. There’s a lot of things we need to sort out."

Why is the first thing on my mind the panicky fear of him breaking up with me? Why would he? I’m such a wretched piece of shit.

"I don’t want to talk to you!", I yell.

"You already do."

"This is not the time for your goddamn dad jokes.", I complain.

"Morgan, I need to ask you something.", he insists.

"Well, ask through the door." I sound like a stubborn child but seeing him would only weaken me again. I lay down and stretch out, staring at the ceiling, waiting.

"Morgan.", the repeats. He really enjoys saying my name. He could just come in, the door isn’t locked. I hate him for sticking to his manners towards me when he couldn’t give less of a fuck about them in other respects. "I need to ask you personally."

"For fuck’s sake!", I yell. "Then come in!"

I refuse to look at him as he opens the door and enters his bedroom.

"Aren’t you hungry?", he asks.

I turn my head so quick it hurts my neck. “Is this the fucking question you wanted to ask me?”, I shout. “Are you serious?” He’s got a black eye. At least one of Nathan’s attempts to fight back worked out. It’s gonna be really dark later on. I hate myself for subliminally thinking that this will look very fucking hot.

"No, of course I’m not.", he sighs. He walks to the bed and sits down next to me, reaching out for my hand. I pull it away but he grabs it and covers it with his other hand to keep it.

"What?", I hiss, looking up to him. My brain attempts to cope with the situation once again, but gives up knowing there’s no use in it anyway. Not when he looks at me like that. "What do you want to ask me?"

"Well, after what they wrote about you… After what just happened…", he begins, then bites his lip. "I’ve had this thought for a while and… See, that prick ain’t gonna call the police, I know that for sure. I think I’ve made it clear that there will be consequences."

"You threatened him, Niall. He’s fearing for his goddamn life. He’ll most likely call the police."

"Uh-uh." Niall is so sure of himself, even know. I want to punch him in his fucking pretty face until it looks like a plate of spaghetti bolognese.

"Uh-uh? You’ll see. It was not okay, Niall. What you did. He’s probably scared for life now."

"So?" He smirks and I’m tempted to punch him. "He deserved it."

"He-"

"He deserved it.", he repeats to hush me. "He didn’t treat you well, he insulted you. He insulted me. He deserved it. Anyway, I’m not going to force you and we, you know, probably have to plan this out and stuff, but, would you,-"

"What?"

He’s not proposing to me, is he? Could it get any worse? Could it get any weirder?

"Would you leave with me?" The sobriety in his eyes is driving me insane. Is he serious?

"Leave with you as in eloping like fourteen year old wannabe punks?", I snort. "Sure. Pack your stuff, we’re going to Narnia."

I point at the closet. Niall sighs and shakes his head. He hopefully realises what an utterly dull idea this is. “I’m sorry.”, he mumbles. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

"Pretty damn right, Horan.", I snarl and turn away from him again.

"Why are you always so mean to me?", he asks in a painfully frail tone. Like a child trying to make their mother feel guilty for not allowing them to eat cookie dough from the bowl. "Don’t you like me at all?"

"Niall.", I begin.

"No, don’t say my name like that, okay?" He hisses and gets up. There we go. He wants to be taller, wants to be able to look down on me and feel superior. "Tell me. What’s your fucking problem? Why don’t you finally give in, why do you try to run away from the truth so desperately?"

What? I almost laugh because it’s like he directed that to himself rather than to me.

"Niall, I’m not running away. You want to. And I know the truth. You just dwell on an illusion."

That was harsh and I was hoping so bad for us to be over that. But we’re not. And somehow I think, as long as we don’t sort out what we have, as long as we’re together, as long as a part of me I thought died long ago wants to fall into his arms and tell him that I love him, even if I shouldn’t, that I really, really fell for him and his horrible character and even all the creepy traits, we won’t ever get over this.

He just swallows loudly and raises his eyebrows.

"I’m not being mean to you. I’m just trying to hold on to the last bit of sanity I got left. I’m already a mess. I don’t need a man to complicate things even more.", I explain.

"But I’m not ‘a man’, Morgan!”, Niall shouts.

"Niall, I- I can’t believe what you did, I’m scared."

"Of me."

"Yes, you already know that." I got more quiet with each word and the next sentence is just a whisper. "It’s not going to keep me away from you. I’m not strong enough. And you make me feel. Not exactly good, but you woke me from my numbness. It’s just that you’re not exactly good for me. And I know I probably don’t even deserve ‘good’. But you have to realise that running away with you wouldn’t equal escaping our problems."

Niall just shrugs. I know he listened but he pretends he doesn’t care. I wish I could rip his ego out of his- where are egos located? Do we carry our egos in our hearts or do we keep them in our brain?

"I shouldn’t have asked.", he just says again before he turns around and leaves the room, just like that. I thought he’d stay. It doesn’t seem like him to behave this way. Maybe this fucker’s trying to make me feel guilty now. He sure as hell does. This is a whole new kind of psycho terror. He makes use of my lability. How well does he know me? How can he know that even if most things I should care about don’t bother me, but if I care, I really care? He’s seen my true self right away. Maybe already that night in the club. Fuck.

Thinking of the club, I realise I’ve quite well suppressed the urge to go out recently. I feel like dancing again, I miss the lights and the beat going from the boxes straight into my chest. It would be nice to feel anything else but Niall in there for once. And it could be a good distraction. Lying on the bed, I decide to go out tonight.

I don’t tell Niall about my plan right away, though. At around six pm, I get out of bed and walk into the kitchen because I’m hungry. I have no idea where the hell this man keeps his food in his studio kitchen. Stainless steel and white wood, so clean it seems like he never even eats. I’ve been here, but except for the huge fruit basket, I can’t even make out behind which of the cabinets the fridge is.

"Fuck.", I cuss. I don’t want to ask him. I want to just take what I want, most preferably the most expensive shit I find or just all of the left over Nutella, and stuff my face in protest. I hold on and listen closely to make out in which he room he is, but I can’t hear footsteps, neither voices from the TV or the shower. He’s either on the toilet and or he quietely hides in the living room. Or I’m alone.

I refrain from aimlessly opening all cabinets first and tiptoe back into the hallway. My reflection makes me sick. I really need to doll up a little before I go out later. For some reason, I have massive urge to look as sexy as possible.

I walk to the living room, but he’s not in it. The bathroom is empty, too. He’s gone. And he didn’t tell me. He didn’t even leave a note this time. What’s wrong with him? Even if his usual paternalism annoys me if it doesn’t turn me on, I now feel let down and disappointed. A massive lump swells in my throat. Why did he leave me alone? Isn’t he afraid something might happen to me like he always is? Was he really that sad about my reply? Was I too harsh?

"Stop!", I tell myself. I clench my fists and turn to the mirror again, saying: "Stop blaming yourself. Niall behaves like the most immature idiot in the whole universe. The entire situation is completely fucked up and complicated like nothing you’ve ever gone through before. It’s not your fault. You are not guilty of anything."

 

That’s a plain lie, at least the last part. I am more than just guilty. I could have gotten off this runaway train before a bad part of me got attached to the mad engine driver. And isn’t it kind of my fault that he beat up Nathan? I decided to go out with him, the paps just found us and-

No, no, no. Here we go again. The voices get so loud, so fucking loud. My hands start shaking, cold waves of fear break over my head, my heart starts to flutter. I gasp for air and walk into the kitchen. Everything around me goes blurry, the sun’s reflection in the mirror is blinding me. I squint, dizzy, weak, close to bursting into tears for no proper reason but the fact my insides are screaming at me.

Too many thoughts that try to posess my mind just like this man does. And even though a part of me was relieved to know him gone for a while, I now wish he was here to scare the monsters away. I can’t have a fucking panic attack now. Well, I obviously can, but-

I bend over the counter, grabbing the water bottle with shaky fingers, but once I screwed the lid, I drop it and spill it on me and the floor.

"Shit.", I pant and get down on my knees, in the puddle, as my throat tightens around the lump and I start sobbing, gasping for air like I’m drowning in the spilled water, shaking like crazy.

Then, it all fades into white noise.

I know what it’s like when it’s over. It’s like standing on a cliff after a rainstorm, letting the cold wind dry your weakened body as you finally get a glimpse of the sun behind the dark clouds again.

I’m still alone, rocking back and forth on the kitchen floor. It passed quicker than I thought it would and even if I’m crying now, I wonder if those attacks got a little easier to endure lately. I didn’t even recognise the last one as such. And even though I don’t know how much time has passed, I don’t feel like this one lasted too long, too.

He’s still not here, still not with me. But I don’t need him to pick me up off the floor, I don’t need him to hold me. Do I? I did well without him before. There’ve been weeks in which I had more than just one attack a day. Weeks in which I was so sad I felt demented, because I simply forgot what happened between forcing myself out of bed in the grey mornings and falling back into the sheets again in the blue nights.

Now, I was sensitive, attentive, even a little more careful. It all changed since I met him, everything changed since I met him. Despite the fact that I couldn’t be more confused, more desperate, more mad at myself for wanting a man so much, even if he’s clearly more than just a bad choice, I feel like I’m getting stronger. Less afraid. Less indiffierent. Less sad.

I lost the purity of my numbness but I like the acid that rushes through my veins.

I pull myself back on my feet and take off the wet clothes. I wipe the water off the floor and walk to the bathroom to take a shower.

I don’t know which of the many buttons to push to get the water flowing first, but after hot steam started fuming from little nozzles in the walls, I finally figure it out. I wash my hair, close my eyes as the warm water runs down my skin and I smile. I’m ashamed of thinking that I could definetely get used to this luxury, because actually, I really don’t care. Yet, I have never taken a shower like this before. I turn off the water and step on the tiles, grab a big, white towel und wrap it around my warm body. Suddenly, I like what I see in the mirror. I decide to get ready for the night already, so I comb and blow dry my hair. Niall even has a damn flat iron. I allow myself to use one of his many body lotions. It smells like musk and moss and I can’t help but picture how he applies it on his pale skin. I’m still angry at him, but certain body parts of me aren’t.

I walk into the bedroom, realising I got nothing to wear here. I have to get back to my flat and pick out one of my dresses, or, even better, go to town and award myself with a new one. That’s a fucking great idea. I just need this. And I don’t care if there’s gonna be people who stare at me, talk about me. For some reason, all of sudden, I’m not scared of them anymore. What even can they do? Why would they even care? It’s none of their business if I am with- I can’t finish this thought, I’m still too pissed. I wonder where this goddamn fucktard is. It’s been almost two hours and I don’t know for long he was gone before I realised I was alone.

I walk to his closet and open it without the slightest hint of a bad conscience. He invaded my home, too. Invaded my life, invaded me. So I got every damn right in the world to borrow one of his shirts. He wore mine, too.

I find a tanktop with an USA print that’s long enough for me to wear it as a dress. Then, I get my purse from the living room, where I left it when we got here in the morning. It feels like a decade ago. Then, I walk to the front door and-

"No, you did NOT do that."

He did.

I have never gone from relatively calm to absolutely fucking furios so quick, but after futilely pulling on the damn knob for three seconds, already knowing that this bastard locked me in his flat after the first, I kick the dark wood and scream at the top of my lungs.

"FUCKING PSYCHO!", I yell as if he could hear me.

He fucking locked me in his flat, like I’m his goddamn hostage. He’s taking the whole “I’m all yours” shit way too seriously. I pound my fist against the door as if it would help, then, I pull my phone out my purse and almost call my mother by accident because I’m too fucking berserk to properly work the touch screen.I find his name in my list and call him. He answers his phone right away.

"Morgan?" He sounds out of breath and I once again wonder where the fuck he went.

"Who do you think you are!", I burst out, almost crushing my phone between my fingers. "Did you fucking lock me in your fucking flat?"

I walk back into the bedroom because I have to keep moving, or else I’ll fucking lose it.

"Morgan, listen, I was just- I thought you wouldn’t notice." He sounds so ashamed and that pleases me. But what kind of apology is that supposed to be?

"Oh, you think I wouldn’t notice? And that makes it okay? Wow." I laugh hysterically. "Come here right now and let me go."

"I’ll hurry, I’m just-"

"No, shove your ‘just’ up your fucking arse, Niall, I’m done with this shit. I can’t fucking believe that you locked me in your flat. What is that supposed to effect? You better hurry. And you owe me an explanation."

With these words, I hang up. I walk from the front door to the bedroom and to the front door again, over, and over, and then, he finally comes in. As soon as the door swings open, I freeze. I watch as he comes in. He’s like one of those puppies that pissed in your favorite shoe. He doesn’t even dare to look at me. I’m disgusted by his behaviour.

"You’re making me sick.", I spit out. "I can’t deal with this any longer."

"Are you breaking up with me?", is the first thing he asks. I scan his face, then his body. There’s a huge blood stain on his shirt and it makes me want to throw up. Did he go out wearing this? Was it already this big when we got here? Did he injure Nathan this bad? Fuck.

I snort and walk towards him, grab his face and make him look at me. “Niall, what you do is not okay. To say the least. Tell me why you did that. Where have you been?”

"I was meeting Ted, my manager, or at least the guy who kind of helps me to-"

"Were you? Or are you lying to me?", I interrupt him.

"I’m not lying.", he says. Yet, he refuses to look into my eyes. His lids flutter and I know he’s angry, but he’s trying his best to suppress it for me. If he ever got really angry at me, would he do to me what he did to Nathan? I couldn’t imagine. The thought scares me, though. So screw that Ted guy.

"Why did you lock me in?", I ask in a steady voice, even if I feel like crying again. There goes my strength. He puts me through the worst rollercoaster ride of unwanted emotions.

"I just wanted to protect you.", he mumbles.

"From what? Do you think someobody could just, break into the flat and, kill me? What the fuck is wrong with you, Niall?"

The only appropriate answer to that question would be everything. And knowing this makes me want to rip out my intestines.

"No, I just didn’t want you to go out without me. I wanted to keep you safe while I was gone, but I knew that-"

"You knew that maybe, there’s a chance I might want to, I don’t know, do something on my own like a normal person?", I mock him, letting go of his face because I can’t bear touching him right now.

"Morgan, please don’t do this to me.", he begs. "I was just trying my best to be a good boyfriend."

"A good boyfriend my ass, Niall!", I shout. "This is not what good boyfriends do! Have you ever been in a relationship? Did you always sort of, um, kidnap your girlfriends and force them to stay with you even when they’d rather fucking stab you?"

"You want to stab me?" He sounds like a five year old now. I can’t believe that this man is the same man that spanked and fucked me so good before.

"Yes.", I say, only to hurt him. He seems like he’d actually believe it right now.

"I was in relationships.", he begins. "But it was different. I changed, I don’t know, something happened to me."

"Maybe it’s the drugs, ever wondered?", I hiss.

"Maybe it’s you.", he responds. And now, he finally looks right into my eyes. His words cut through my flesh like the razorblade I’d choose over this argument in a heartbeat.

"Yeah, maybe you’re right.", I respond, quiet and calm now. I’m fed up with shouting at him. He seems to become aware of what he just said and as I inhale and step forward to walk past him and out of the flat he kept me in like a dog in a cage, he reaches out to grab my arm and hold me back, but I unintentionally lunge out and hit him right in the face.

"Don’t fucking touch me!", I snarl before I walk out of my stainless steel steam nozzle prison.

____________________________

____________________________

____________________________

He fucked up. That’s it. It’s over. No, it can’t be over. That’s what he repeatedly tells himself as he beats up the punchbag, imagining it’s this guy’s face. The sight of the blood streaming down this mask of pure fear had satisfied him unlike anything he’s ever done before. He got in fights, a lot of fights, but none of them ever felt this good to him like that one. Not only because of all the blood and the incomparably great feeling that overcame him when he looked down on his broken, whiny victim, no, also because he fought for something he loved, not just his despicable self.

But she misunderstands. Or she gets it just right. Who can tell good from bad anymore? The only thing he knows is that he has to get her back. He has to apologise, again, he was to prove her that he loves her. And then not let her go again. Never. She doesn’t know that when he locks her up, he’s just being the protector she could indeed do without, but still deserves. The media is just as much of a danger as everyone else around, everyone who looks at her, everyone who nurses any kind of negative feeling towards her. There’s so much bad things in this world, so many horrible people. Maybe, he’s the worst of them all. And that’s why he at least wants to save her from all the others. When he can’t save her from himself.

It won’t be easy, it never is, but he knows where she’ll be and he knows what to do. And he knows it’s not right, but he made his choice.

"Aye, mate.", he hears a familar voice behind him. He turns around. His eyes still burn and he hopes that Curtis, who was once his personal trainer at the gym and now just one of his workout buddies, can’t tell that he’s on drugs again, and that he, in fact, snorted a little too much.

"Curtis.", he says, taking his boxing glove off for the usual handshake, but Curtis refuses.

"Listen, mate, I need to tell you something.", Curtis begins and Niall can tell that he’s nervous. It’s weird to see a man this tall and ripped hem and haw like a child.

"Yeh?"

"Listen, I know the newspaper writes a lot of shit and I’ve known you long enough, you’re my mate, I love boxing with you, all that."

"But?" Niall already knows what’s coming. He inhales the thick, gross gym air and tries to brace himself, which is useless, because he’s got no power to keep his anger level low anymore. "Yer kickin me out? Fine."

Curtis doesn’t protest. Niall is smarter than he seemed to be when he first met him. A lanky, rather short irishmen isn’t quite the type for becoming a good boxer, but Niall was nimble, wiry and quick. His punches were on point and over the years, he developed a steadily growing aggression that had turned him into an unpredictable opponent. That is why, regarding the rumors, Curtis had decided on asking him to find another gym for good. He feared for the reputation of his facility.

"Mate, listen-"

"I’m got gonna listen, and if you call me your fucking mate one more time I’m gonna shut your gym down.”, Niall hisses through his teeth. “You know I could. You know I got enough money to shut down this fucking gym and build me a goddamn night club on it’s base.”

"Why don’t you make a real job of it and open up your own brothel right away?", Curtis growls back, shaking his head.

His first instinct is to grab Curtis by the back of his head and smash his nose in his kneecap like he did it with Nathan, but Niall bites his own tongue, so hard he might just bleed and smiles instead.

"Great idea.", he chuckles. "Then you could cheat on your wife in a circle of acquaintances, right?"

Other men around have stopped boxing, rope skipping and lifting only to watch the massive, dark skinned Curtis and his pale contraty prance like combative lions.

"I honestly doubt you could still afford that, though.", Curtis says. "To me it looks like you’ve spent most of those ugly little girls’ cash on drugs."

"At least not on anabolic ones, huh?"

"Yo, calm down!", a guy yells.

Niall turns to him and grins. “We’re fine, thanks!”

"This dude’s creepy as hell.", another guy tells his trainer. "Teen idol, huh? My ass."

Niall can hear them, but he couldn’t care less. Curtis is angry and so is he, but both men know there’d only be really bad consequences if they started beating each other up like they want to.

Curtis knows that the media quickly changes sides. No matter what they wrote about Niall, in the end, he was the skinny white, and the subliminal racism in most journalists’s heart would keep them from defending the dark skinned stranger with arms like Schwarzenegger’s if push came to shove.

Niall knows that he doesn’t stand a chance in this fight, no matter how much he wishes he could just blindly start beating the shit out of Curtis.

"I think I’m leaving now.", Niall finally says, wanting to prove that after all, he’s still smarter. Even if he felt the flood of wrath building up inside the darkness he carried within already. "You’ll hear of me."

"I’m sure The Sun will keep me updated."

Niall empties his locker and doesn’t even look back. He came here at least every other day for the past ten years, but he won’t miss this place. He barely got attached to certain places anymore anyway. Leaving the gym, he thinks of home, wonders if he should call his family. Ask about Theo, how he’s doing in school. Maybe text one of his old mates. Sean, maybe, or Darragh. But they’re both married, living the life they’ve always dreamed of, whilst he’s stuck in a nightmare by now.

And didn’t it always seem like he was the lucky one?

He knows that she’ll be at the club in a few hours and as the sun sets in London’s clear sky, he makes another choice.

There’s got to be some things arranged first, though. So he stops at a street corner somewhere in the centre, lights a blunt in the car and calls up Ted.

"Niall, the fuck’s going on!", Ted shouts at the other side of the phone. "I’ve tried to call you all day."

"Yeh, I saw that. Ignored you on purpose.", Niall sighs and sucks in the thick smoke as he leans back in the driver’s seat. The sunset is so fucking beautiful tonight. The horizon is orange, red, light blue, golden. He thinks of Morgan and wonders if she sees it from her flat, too.

"What have you been doing? Who’s that girl?"

"That’s my girlfriend."

"Nice one." Niall can practically see Ted Voldemort roll his eyes. "No, really. Are you in a relationship with her? A serious a relationship?"

"Yes. I’m in love with her.", Niall calmly replies. "And we’re very happy."

Well, that’s a lie. But he hasn’t been honest the whole day through so does it matter?

"Are you high?", Ted asks.

"Yes, but I’m very sure about this. We’re a couple." It sounds and feels so good to say it out loud. It’s like the afternoon never happened. It’s like she never left like she wasn’t planning on ever coming back. He doesn’t really regret locking her in anyway. And he knows what to do to ease her, he’s got a plan. She has to adapt. She has to be a good girl for him once again.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Well I remember a certain someone didn’t tell me about a certain thing in time, too. You too? It’s not long ago." Niall chuckles.

"Niall, I’m-", Ted begins, but his hopeless client interrupts him.

"I’m calling you because you have to do me a favor."

"Oh, do I?" If Ted wasn’t just as much of a sarcastic asshole as Morgan, Niall would have fired him already. But for some reason, this guy’s been the only constant he could rely on before he met her.

"Yes. It’s nothing too complicated, I just need you to book some tickets and shit. I can’t be arsed to do that and I feel like they’re after me anyway. And I don’t want anyone to know."

"You’re leaving? Is it because of the rumors?" Ted sounds slightly concerned now.

"It’s mainly for Morgan’s good. She asked me to run away with her. Isn’t that cute? Yeh, anyway, I really need these tickets. And I need you to shut up about our destination and in general. Just keep your mouth shut about this issue. Can I trust you?"

"Well, you have to ask yourself if you can."

Ted’s a smart man. His words are very true. Niall doesn’t really trust anyone anymore, but if he had to choose whom to trust, he’d say Morgan and Ted.

"Yes.", he sighs, freeing the thick sweet fume from his aching lungs. "Yes. Book us the flight. Most preferably very early and as soon as possible."

"Yeah, you just have to tell me where you wanna go, you idiot. Do you want me to book a hotel for you, too? For how long?"

A group of strangers walks past Niall’s car and they look through the windows. He flips them off with a smile.

"Um, no.", he then says. "No hotel. I got a place to stay down there."

"Where?"

"In the valley, Ted. Book a no return flight to the States, I’ll take her to Los Angeles."

______________________

______________________

______________________

I spent all of my money on three way too short, way too tight dresses, all black, lacy, with fake leather, low cut, but so pretty. If I die tonight, I’ll die as a raging queen of the night.

There were actually more people who stared at me, talked about me, but instead of giving them my usual grumpy look, I decided on smiling at them. When I’m really angry, I get fierce. And I was so eager to have a good night, as a revenge for Niall treating me like this. The more he tries to take control, the more I want to let myself go.

Returning to my flat without him makes it seem much bigger. I feel home again, even if the rooms seem a little empty. Especially the sight of my bed, undone and still stained with my blood, makes me swallow hard. But I won’t let myself get all sentimental again.

I put on one of the new dresses and now that I’m going to keep this one on right away. It’s very tight and if I didn’t have a confident day I’d probably take it off again, but I couldn’t give less fucks about fat or freckles I don’t like.

I put on some dark lipstick, grab my denim jacket and purse and leave, feeling like I’m going to war.

It’s already dark outside and I hurry to get to the station, my usual way. The last time I walked this way, I had no idea what was coming. I feel watched, turn my head, but can’t see anyone there. It’s a little creepy and now, of all times, I have to fucking remember this creepy internet comic Lucy showed me some time ago, anything with a damn bong chong dong ghost or whatever the name was. I walk faster, listening if anyone’s following me, but there’s nothing but the sound of cars driving by. I still hurry to get to the tube.

Not much later, I reach the end of the line and get in the club. That club. On purpose. There’s hundreds but I needed to go here. It feels good to be back. I wonder if there’s gonna be people who recognise me here, too. But nobody pays attention to me in the dark entrance hall, except for some men who stare at my boobs and ass as I walk by. I can’t help but think of Niall and how he’d react if he caught them peeking. I remind myself I’m still angry and walk straight to the dancefloor.

It’s like cycling, no matter for how long you do without it, you don’t unlearn it. The song they play is kind of old, but I’ve always loved it. The lights are blue and white tonight and I wonder if the bass is louder than usual, too. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline in me that makes me feel like I’m drunk on the melancholic melody along with the uptempo rhythym, maybe it’s happiness. That isn’t caused by Niall. Well, that’s new. Newer than happiness in general. I feel independet. I feel free.

But why do I think of him? Why do I picture him somewhere in the back of the club, where I first saw him? Why do I feel a sweet, but gnawing pain in my chest?

The song ends and I pray for relief. Some songs just put you in the mood where you feel homesick for a place you’ve never been to. But the next song only brings up other feelings. I wonder if it’s a 2010’s celebration party but they play Swimming Pools by Kendrick Lamar and the crowd loves it. Of course they do. Most of them are my age, which means they were in their vivid teens when this song was played on full volume on every british suburban birthday party and of course I remember rather shameful days of my youth, too. I just close my eyes and try to let go, see if I can. I can. I don’t need my past anymore. No stage in my life has ever felt as important as the one I’m in. Maybe this is in fact what I’ve been waiting for.

All the trouble, all the pain, the longing, the growing desire to be with Niall despite my doubts, all the shit he put me through already. The fucking fear, by far one of the best, or worst things to whatever we have. I’m mad at him and I’m scared. So scared. And I know I’m stupid to want him though. So much. I want him so much. And I hate myself for wishing he was with me. But I still feel like there’s a tattoo on my goddamn broken soul, I feel like I’ve been cursed, or blessed with an invisible guard because right here, in right now, in the middle of all those people, where I used to be lonely despite their bodies crashing into mine in inebriated dances, I’m not lonely anymore. Even if he’s not with me, I can feel him. And I know that this is what it feels like to be taken. To belong to someone. Even when you’re not with them, you feel like there’s a goddamn compass in your fucking heart, no matter if it’s shattered like mine, and the damn needle reminds you of who you belong to.

But I can’t belong to a mental, more than just overprotective, drug addicted ex popstar? Well, I sure can. But I shouldn’t. I wish it would have ended earlier. I wish it would have never begun. And I wish he was here.

That’s how time passes. I constantly try to keep Niall off my mind, but I can’t. Whenever a guy looks at me, one of the many voices yells “I’m taken” through my eyes and they look away as if they knew. I dance until my dress sticks to my sweaty body, my feet hurt and so does my head.

I want to drink something, no alcohol, just water, cool, easing water. I’m dizzy but not tired.

I stumble to the bar when suddenly someone taps on my shoulder.

I should have noticed earlier. Here’s the reason why the crowd parted a little before, the reason why some women started yelling and applauding. This club is frequently visited by celebrities, yes, but I didn’t care, I didn’t expect one of that kind to be here. One who was in that damn band, too.

"Hey!", I hear a voice that I, in fact, remember, too. He never talked much, he always seemed like the most sound guy except for a few ricochets, definetely. I think I remember he climbed on a roof once. And I remember he was very protective of the guy that now likes to lock his,- Not girlfriend - up in his flat.

He’s wearing a leather jacket and the first thing I think of when I look at it is that he must be sweating like a fucking pig. He’s one of those people that are so goodlooking that you feel ashamed talking to them. And he’s got his hand on my shoulder. It doesn’t belong here. Someone elses hand does, though.

"Hey!", he says again, smiling at me. "I know you!"

"I know you, too!", is all I can respond. I haven’t talked in hours and my voice sounds a little weak after shouting at Niall so much.

He winks at me. “You’re Niall’s girlfriend! I was gonna call him, you know, The Sun writes the biggest fucking crap ever. I don’t believe what they said about the girls, there’re probs just attention seeking virgins!” He smells of expensive perfume and alcohol and for some reason I can imagine he spent his money in smarter ways than Niall.

He is tanned, toned, he looks healthy. He looks like he did back in the year the song they now play

came out.

"So are you really with him? I mean, are you even the girl I think you are or do my eyes decieve me, haha?" He seems so excited to see me and I feel the urge to puke on his black shoes. I’ve been in The Sun, watched my boss almost getting beaten to death, I was locked up by my what he calls boyfriend and now I’m standing in the middle of this club, casually talking to Liam Payne. Before I know how and what to reply, he points to the bar and asks: "Fancy a drink?"

I just nod and follow him. “No alcohol please!”, I shout in his ear and he winces. He then nods and orders me some kind of alcohol free cocktail, it looks delicious, but I’d much rather have water. I could just tell him. It’s funny how I get this pathetically nervous around one ex band member but let the other one go down on my naked body. Well, I felt the same when I first met Niall. But not exactly. The wall that seems to be built between me and Liam wasn’t there in Niall’s case, quite the opposite is the case. Even if I barely remember, I just felt like we had a connection right from the start and as Liam’s happy eyes glance at me, I know what it was that compelled me into Niall’s arms. It’s clear as the night sky outsid and ludicrously ironic, considering that Niall’s the blonde guy with light blue eyes and a constant smile while Liam looks like an obstinate businessman,- but what chained me to Niall and him to me was the darkness.

We were both lost,- and we found each other. Just like this, at this bar.

"Is Niall around?", Liam asks. "I haven’t seen him in so long. Man, I was worried! So worried!"

I wish I was brave enough to shout “Then why didn’t you just call him?” I bet Niall would have liked to hear from his old friend again. Did I avoid him because of the drugs, the women, all the affairs? Or did he avoid and ignore them on purpose?

I just shake my head instead. Liam shrugs and gulps down his drink. A tall man walks up to us and yells something into Liam’s ear I can’t understand. He looks like a bodyguard and I wonder if Liam’s still having one. I wonder if the other members live a way better life than Niall does. I’m almost absolutely sure. I want to throw up on the cocktail Liam got me. The voices that blame me are getting a little too loud again, asking if I was too harsh when I left Niall. But I’m still mad at him. “He locked me in his flat.”, I tell myself.

"What?" Liam comes a little too close. He heard it.

"Nothing.", I lie and empty the thin glass. "Thanks for the drink."

"You’re welcome! Niall’s friends are my friends." Why does the word ‘friend’ sound like a lie from his mouth? "My wife’s somewhere in here, too. She said she was gonna go to the toilet. Maybe you girls get along."

You girls. I wonder what Liam’s wife is like. I know that we sure as hell won’t get along. And I can definetely imagine what she looks like.

And as I watch the tall man guarding a breathtakingly beautiful woman with long, brunette hair to the bar, I know that this is her. I didn’t even notice the bodyguard like guy disappeared to go literally go find her. And there she is. She greets Liam with a kiss, apologises for taking so long and then turns to me, reach out to shake my hand.

"I’m Liz!", she introduces herself. Her green eyes are honest and there is absolutely no envy in them. "I don’t believe what The Sun said. And look at how pretty she is, Liam! Wow!"

"Thanks.", I mumble, feeling my stomach convulse.

I imagine finding Niall at the bar with another girl. I would probably walk straight to them, rip her head off and stab her body, too, just in case. Fuck. I shouldn’t be this jealous. This isn’t good. Niall is just as jealous, if not worse, and together, we’re just a disaster of envy, fear and hate that feels a lot like love and love that feels a lot like hate.

Watching Liam and Liz, who even have those horribly cute matching names makes me even sicker. They’re so happy together, so content and relaxed, as they sip their drinks and laugh and ask me dull questions I can’t really answer. They ask about my relationship with Niall as if I’ve been with him for years.

"Is he still the weird kid he once was?", Liam asks when every acceptable questions has been answered with a sad excuse of a smile and a "Yeah" or "No, haha".

I should say something like “He kind of took me hostage this morning and he likes to play with blood! Also he’s a total psycho! He does coke for breakfast and beats people up with more passion than during sex.”, but all I say is another “Yeah.”, followed by dumb “Haha”.

Then, a song I really like comes on. “I’m gonna go and dance for a bit, yeah?”, I tell the couple. I feel really pathetic for it. As if they cared. They sure as hell don’t mind me leaving. People stare at me as I walk away from the bar. I sat there with goddamn motherfucking Liam Payne and his fucking wife, blagging alcohol free drinks and looking like what all the gross men around would call a slut. The newspapers slut. Niall Horan’s slut.

I swallow hard and dive into the crowd until I know that nobody’s watching anymore and then I go back to my normal movements, go back to the my own nature.

Until I feel that there’s someone staring at me again.

It’s like one of those very realistic dreams that don’t involve illogical stuff, so they seem even more like real life, because what I see is just likely and I kind of should have expected him to follow me, but when I catch Niall’s eyes staring back at me from the bar, I feel like someone punched me in the stomach. Gone is the invisible guard- my real one is here. And I fucking hate him for that. And I hate him for wearing a fucking button up shirt with a tie, I hate him for the black eye. He looks so fucking good. He talks to Liam, he laughs. But he’s got his eyes locked with mine.

Liam turns around, too and both smile at me. Liam waves at me, Niall doesn’t move. The difference between these men is incredible. It’s so weird to see the man you feel like you belong to with other people. For some reason, the thought of Niall’s life without me drives me insane. He should be right here, there’s too much space between us. We didn’t come here together. He could be a stranger. What if he pretends he doesn’t know me? No, he wouldn’t do that.

"Don’t fucking panic.", I tell myself again. I don’t hear my own voices Just the voices in my head. .

A random guy almost shoves me to the floor as he hurries to walk past.

"Oi, I’m sorry!", he yells. He’s got a beard and plenty of tattoos. "Are you okay? I didn’t mean to-"

I nod and smile at him. Under other circumstances, I would have shoved him in return, too.

But not now. Because there’s a fantasy emerging in my heavy head and I just want to try.

Whilst he asks me for a dance like a proper gentleman, I go through it in my mind: I could dance with him while Niall watches. I could touch him while Niall watches. I could kiss him while Niall watches. Those guys never mind. He wouldn’t fight me off. He’d like it. And I’d like Niall to watch. I’d like to hurt him like this. Am I a cruel person? Or just an angry girlfriend? That longs for her man to treat her well and be jealous so bad? Am I really that hungry for his damn attention?

I just dance with the stranger, really noncommital and almost embarassing, the epitome of white people dancing, but it’s enough for Niall to leave Liam at the bar and cross the dancefloor with big steps, carelessly pushing bodies to the sides.

"Piss of, won’t ya?", he yells at the bearded guy, who just nods and leaves. He doesn’t even look at me again. Well, my plan definetely failed. Beard guy could have at least asked Niall why. He could have at least insisited on staying right here, insisted on dancing with me. He should have made a fucking drama, but he just walks off like nothing ever happened.

Niall, so close to me I can smell his drunk breath, won’t walk off like that.

"Still mad?" he shouts.

I nod.

"Great. Me too now.", he responds. "What was that supposed to be? Trying to make me jealous?"

I just shrug. He’s trying too hard, too. Trying to intimidate me. Make me the guilty one in this endless fight. But I’m not going to let him.

What is he going to do next? Shout some more? Act out a fucking scene in the middle of the club?

No. This fucking asshole, this cocky, self absorbed, relentless bastard, grabs my face and shoves his tongue in my mouth in the grossest, yet hottest kiss I’ve ever been forced to.

He puts his right hand on my ass and gives it a slap and a tight squeeze before he groans, right into my ear, making me shiver all over my body “It worked, Morgan. It’s not hard to make me jealous if it comes to you.”

He kisses me again, a little softer this time. People are watching again, but I really don’t care anymore. I’m still nauseous but a warm briskness of relief comes over me and I know that it’s the toxic taste of his lying lips that reminds me of why I’m so infatuated with this damn criminal.

"I know you can do better than what you did with this guy.", he goes on, biting my lobe. "Will you show me?"

Here we go again. Stupid, horny teenagers. I wonder if the drinks Liam paid for really didn’t contain any kind of alcohol. Maybe he put some drugs in them. Or maybe I just stick to my plan of letting myself go. Those plans didn’t involve the one who triggered my rebellion in first line, but Niall with that tie, Niall showing up here for the sole reason to go after me, to find a solution to our problem… I wish I could refrain from falling for him again and again whenever I see him, but as the lights go off at the beginning of the next song, I remember the darkness that makes us the sad night prowlers in a disastrous kind of love.

So I do what he’s waiting for, I dance, for him, and him only. And I didn’t know I could move like this, but it’s fun. I know he likes it. I feel powerful, alive, sexy, drunk on the way he watches me. And even if I move my ass and roll my hips like we’re fucking again already, he mostly looks into my face, shaking his head in disbelief of… what? Me?

For a split second I wonder if he feels like I can’t be real, or at least not really interested in him, too. Like I do. Like when I remember how fucking crazy it is that out of all men out there, he’s the one I want to be with. Have to be with. Maybe he really feels the same.

I can’t keep my sleazy self from kissing him again, grinding against his body, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"You’re dancing like a proper slut.", he says into my ear.

"I’m your slut.", I respond. I’m brave. I thought this before, so I might as well tell him.

"Yes you are.", he agrees and smiles, then kisses me again just to bite my lower lip and tug on it a little with his sharp teeth. "My slut.", he mouths, his cheeks deep red and his eyes wide, glassy, blue pearls.

I just nod and throw my head back, letting him kiss my neck, in front of all the others. I don’t care, I never cared less. The song makes me so happy and the lyrics fit perfectly. Niall’s enjoying the whole PDA shit, I knew he would. He’s a happy little boy on his first strip club visit.

He keeps his hands on my ass and when I turn around to grind it against him, I can feel that he’s hard again. Yes, I definetely feel powerful.

I forbid myself to think of what happened before. And I know that it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, so wrong and I’m making the same damn mistake over and over again, but I turn my head to let him kiss me, I giggle like a little girl, I let him put his hand between my thighs, in the middle of the club, completely sober. Well he’s proper drunk and the others will think the same of me, but is that an excuse? Is his raspy voice and his warm, promising body an excuse for him being an absoulte fucking asshole?

"You’re so fucking hot, Morgan. I’m so sorry. But you do understand why I want to keep you.", he groans. "I’m not going to let you go. You’re so fucking hot, I’m not gonna pass on this. I’ll keep you forever. You’re like some fucking godddess to me. You’re like the fucking light at the end of the tunnel I’ve been stuck in for years."

"Uh-uh.", I say. He’s wrong. He’s drunk and bad with words. "I’m not the light at the end of the tunnel, Niall. I’m the fucking darkness itself. And so are you."

"Legit. That’s why were’ so perfect together.", he agrees. He’s so turned on, so weak. If I let him, he would unzip my dress right on the spot. I’ve never seen a man this horny in my whole life. And it’s all for me. He grabs my arm and pulls me off the dancefloor, straight into a dark corner. There’s plenty people around, too, but at least he can keep me close to the wall. I know what for.

I turn around again to face him and he place his legs between mine, so as I move my hips and go down a little, I slightly, only slightly, grind on his kneecap, making him feel that what he’s hungry for is all wet and warm for him.

He makes me turn around again, grabs my shoulders. These are the hands that belong there. Then, he pushes me against the wall, parting my legs with his, cupping my face. “I’d fuck you right here, Morgan, in front of the others. Would you like that?”

I nod and bite my lip. I sure would.

"Do you want that?"

I nod again.

"You want me to fuck you in front of all these people? They’re watching already, Morgan. They saw how you danced for me. They can tell how bad you want me to fuck you. And I want to fuck you so bad, too."

"Do it.", I challenge him with a smile. I’m not gonna let him, my left over sanity would keep me from crossing that one of the last imaginable lines.

"You really want that? Just imagine what they’ll write then. Can you imagine the pictures? We should make a sex tape, too. What do you think? Wouldn’t all the little girls love to see me abusing your whorish little body?" He chuckles and grinds his crotch against mine.

"Oh, they sure would.", I sarcastically say.

"Are you sorry for shouting at me yet?"

"Are you sorry for taking me hostage?"

I can hear him swallow before he says: “That wasn’t anything like taking you hostage, Morgan. I just-“

"Don’t try to explain it. It’s forgotten. Just don’t do it again."

"I won’t.", he says. "You got to stay with me anyway. All the time. I missed you. I miss you all the time, Morgan." He kisses my nose. "I love love love you."

"It’s okay.", I mumble. I love you, too. I can’t say that. Not now. Not today.

"I’m afraid you’ll have to suck my cock as a proper apology, though."

"Niall, I’m not guilty of anything! You are the bad guy!", I shout. He just smiles.

"You’ll suck it though. You owe me."

"We’ll see."

"Yeh I’m sure I can’t resists to fuck you for much longer anyway.", he chuckles. "You’re so fucking hot, Morgan. I know everyone who looks at us now is just fucking jealous. That’s what they are. Your fucking boss was jealous. Emily was jealous-"

"Who is Emily?"

Niall just shrugs and says “A friend of mine. Nevermind.”

Well, when he says ‘Nevermind’ , I should definetely mind, shouldn’t I? Emily? Who the fuck is Emily. He continues, naming the paps and The Sun. “They’re all jealous because I got you.”

"Sure."

"I’m not going to let them take you away from me."

"No, Niall, I’m not going to go away anyway I’m afraid."

"That’s perfect, babygirl." He sounds a little whiny now. "Let’s leave now, okay? There’s things we need to do. Things you need to do for me and things you need to let me do to you."

He takes my hand and pulls me to the exit without looking back. I do. I see Liam, who’s smiling and shaking his head, just holding Liz’ hand like a normal couple, while Niall’s grip around mine is so tight it hurts. With a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, I wonder if this was the last time I ever came to this place. For some reason, many voices agree on that.

I turn to Niall and he smiles, and they all go quiet, except for one. It’s screaming.

"Don’t. Don’t leave with him. Don’t go back to him. Don’t fall for him again. Save yourself. Run away if you have to. Save yourself."


	13. Limits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you tell your therapist you fell in love with someone so insane?

Who could resist someone as charming as Niall Horan? Well, Ted couldn’t. And no matter how often he found himself with his feet on his desk, leaning back in his leather chair with a bottle of Jack in his left, a cigarette in his right hand, deeply regretting his choice to take care of this fuck up’s business, he never had the heart to dismiss his only client or turn his back on him for all the things he put him through.

Niall wasn’t just difficult. Over the years, he had become more than just a challenge Ted never really accepted. He was a smiling hell on skinny legs and Ted hated himself for having gotten so attached to this boy. He just had a thing for screw ups. The troubled youth. He always liked that. Maybe because he spent his teenage years studying for a degree that doesn’t count anymore now, maybe because he never even had a proper youth. He changed schools so often, he could never make friends. And after graduating, he went straight to college in the States. Then he came back, got married, and established his little management agency.

His wife often picked on him, asked if he wanted to leave her and be with Niall instead. Sometimes, Ted really questioned himself in that aspect. And in so many others. He felt responsible for that boy. And yes, he was an adult man, but he’d always feel like that one son you can’t give up on, no matter how often you catch him smoking pot on the roof, no matter how often he steals your car and even when he crashes it, you forgive him. Ted, who didn’t have children of his own, made use of Niall’s predisposition to cling to the few he trusted.

It was exhausting and annoying, but the only thing that kept Ted going on some days. His wife didn’t know about the gun in the drawer and sometimes he forgot it, too. But tonight, it seems as if it’s vibrating in its wooden coffin.

Ted knew he did a terrible job, and the issue with these women who told The Sun about something he secretly believed in, was just another proof. He could understand if Niall fired him and there were similar situations in which he had expected him to do so before, but he never did. Maybe, after all, Niall was still a good person. Because a good heart might never change.

Ted felt the urge to show Niall he cared. He was going to book the tickets right away, but a few problems accured. As he filled in the online form on the airline’s website, asking Niall for his girlfriend’s name via text and then proceeding to book the tickets in her name, so that no paps could track Niall down, he came across something that made him balk and almost choke on his cigarette.

He tried to call Niall to tell him about the obstacles, but he wouldn’t pick up the damn phone. Considering the time and date, he was probably out with this girl, so Ted gave up on it and decided to wait until the next day. He could have spent the night with his wife, but he stayed in his office, trying to flush down what felt like a tumor in his chest with vodka and coffee. Whenever he blinked, he saw that girl right in front of him and it only added to his deep displeasure with the situation. He was worried. About Niall. About that girl. About himself. Mostly about himself when he leaned back, stretched and unbuttoned his pants to calm down quick.

Thankful for his own office computer, he opened his favorite porn site and started to stroke himself to two way too young, tattoed men with slender bodies. At some point, he closed his eyes and before he knew it, he found himself fantasizing about Niall, kneeling in front of him like the good boy he looked like, quiet and obedient for a change.

It wasn’t the first time he got off to that, but he barely ever felt so repulsive afterwards. Sweat on his bald head, his own cum on his fingers, he turned to the window to see his own, disgusting reflection.

An old man, a broken man, a man that would pick a bullet over three more years with the wife he only married to cover up the fact a good christian like him prefered young boys. An impure man that knew than he could ever tell.

He carried so much responsibility in his cum stained hands, which now reached out for the drawer.

But no, not tonight. Not yet.

He puts his hand back on his leg when the phone rings.

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

"You’re drunk, Ni, you shouldn’t drive.", I force myself to say to trick my dizzy brain into thinking I actually care.

"And you shouldn’t talk.", he groans, grabbing me by the back of my head to make me bend over the gearstick. "I’ve been waiting for this way too long, I should’ve forced your earlier."

He’s so hard for me beneath his tight pants, so horny that he’s both aggressively intent on getting what he wants and pathetically vulnerable in this state of deep, desperate yearning. A paradox that reminds me of why I’m so crazy about him. With his tight grip and brutality, he’s just begging me to have mercy and finally take his cock in my mouth.

We’re driving through London and I know he doesn’t head home, I can’t see where we’re going with my face hovering over his lap.

I open his belt and unzip his pants and he lifts his ass off the seat so I can pull them down a little. He’s speeding up, impatiently clicking his tongue. “Are you gonna start, or?”

I know the longer I’ll hestitate, the weirder it’ll get, so as soon as wrap my fingers around his throbbing cock, I drag my tongue along its length, covering it in as much saliva as I got for the now, to make it all sloppy and sensitive. I catch myself realising that I actually fucking love Niall’s cock. Dylan’s cock did not seldomly disgust me in some way. I don’t know why. But it’s different with Niall. I want it in my mouth, I want to taste him, want him to cum on my tongue and swallow it all. I’m so amused by how pleasing someone else arouses me like that.

I pucker my lips and tighten my hand around him as I start to move it up and down a bit. I rub my mouth aganst the pink head of his cock, smearing the bit of precum that drips from its tip on my lips and looking up to him to see the vein on his neck thicken, pulsating in anticipation of what I’m about to do to him. For him.

"Go on.", he groans, bucking his hips to imply what he wants.

I lick up his shaft again, humming a little to tease him, and then, I open my mouth and take him in, full length, until I feel its tip at the back of my throat. I can barely suppress a retch, but I don’t care. My back hurts, I don’t care either. His pubes tickle my nose and I really couldn’t care less. With his hand on my neck, able to break it within a split second, I feel more powerful than ever before in my whole life.

I could bite his damn cock off. Whoever said giving blowjobs was degrading is fucking wrong. I love sucking Niall’s cock, I love hearing his throaty moans, his heavy breathing, I love how he wraps my hair around his fingers and pulls it a little as I bob my head and he sighs: “Fuck, Morgan, that’s exactly what I needed. You’re doing so well. You’re so fucking good at this.”

His road rage gets a little out of control and I know it’s my fault, but honestly, right now I couldn’t imagine a better way to die than with his cock in my mouth. I’m not in the slightest grossed out by any of my thoughts the moment I hollow my checks and start to take him in even deeper. I gag and he chuckles, forcing me to stay down this a hard pat on my head.

"You finish this and you’ll lick it all up, you hear me?", he grunts.

He unintentionally starts thrusting into my mouth and my gag reflex makes me tear up, but I keep going, I even increase my pace.

I whimper a little, though.

"Oh, Morgan, I must be hearing things!", he hisses. "Don’t be a fucking crybaby, just suck it."

I obey, of course, and he soon seems to relax a little.

"Oh fuck." he sighs as I feel his cock twitching. "I’m gonna cum, babe."

I look up again, he’s got his eyes glued to the dark street ahead, his sweaty hands barely got hold of the steering wheel anymore. He keeps thrusting against the back of my throat and then, an usually loud moan slips from his lips.

He pulls my hair and presses my head further down. I can’t fucking breathe, but it’s amazing. I’m close to laughing, actually, I’m having so much fun.

"Mhmm.", he pants. "That’s it, I’m- I’m-"

His warm cum spurts into me. He quickly pulls my head back to look at my face and I keep my mouth open to show him his juice on my tongue. He smiles and pinches my cheek.

"Want me to watch you swallow, huh?", he giggles, still out of breath from his orgasm. I nod and smile back before I close my mouth and gulp his salty cum down. I like its taste, it’s almost a little sweet and I lick my lips clean after it.

"Come here.", he groans, grabbing my neck again, but this time, to kiss me. "You’ve done so well. I’m gonna eat your little cunt up as soon as we get to your place, babe, I’m gonna reward you for being such a good slut for your Daddy ."

"I don’t want you to eat me out.", I say before I realise what I’m leading him on to here. "I want you to fuck me." I really do, but I’m aware that stopping the car to let him take me in the next best alley way is probably a bad idea, especially since I feel like the damn media is onto us. But I’m quivering, I’m so needy, I feel like a starving animal in the fucking desert and I want him to fuck me, want him to leave me bruised and sore because the monsters are taking over once again and they need to be fed.

Niall looks at me with confusion in his wide, blue eyes. “Now?”

"Hmh.", I nod. "Now."

I’ve seen this in a movie and it always turned me on. Regardless of my purpose as a good passenger, I pull down my panties and spread my legs on the dashboard, licking my fingertips which still taste like his cock, and slide my index and middle finger straight between my dripping folds to literally fingerfuck me right next to him.

"What do you think you’re doing?", Niall groans, looking from the road to me, back to the road again, back to me. He’s sweating, his shirt’s already sticking to his body. "Stop the crap Morgan, we’re at your place soon, I’ll fuck you there."

"But I can’t wait.", I moan, starting to circle my thumb on my swollen clit. It’s so sensitive that I shiver and whimper again, scooting down on the seat to spread my legs even further.

"I’m trying to drive!", Niall snarls.

"Well, you didn’t care when you made suck you off.", I respond with a smile I would have loved to see in the mirror. Maybe I looked as cocky as he usually does. For some reason, I think of my therapist for less than a jiff, but I quickly fall back into the stormy sea of literally devouring lust as I tap on my clit and moan especially loud to tease Niall even more. Instead of the grown up drug addict, I picture his eighteen year old self next to me, flushed cheeks, braces, a snapback on his still light blonde hair. This kid never expected any of this to happen. Just like the past me never dared to dream of it, too.

"Stop right now.", he commands in a low, hoarse tone. "I swear I’ll stop at the sidewalk and fuck you on the asphalt if you don’t stop."

"But maybe I want that.", I coo and flutter my eyes at him. I’m letting of my left over sanity in the passenger seat, with a much too loud song on the radio and a man like my monster by my side.

"You want that?", Niall chuckles, not turning his head to me anymore. I lead my fingers to my mouth and suck my juices off with a proper slurp, but he still doesn’t look at me. "Believe me, you don’t want that. I’ve been careful with you. You don’t know what I’m capable of."

"Are you trying to scare me, Daddy?”, I mock him. It feels like I’m pouring gasoline into a raging fire and I want to burn. “You don’t know what I’m capable of, too.”

"Oh Morgan.", he sighs, shaking his head. "I know more about you than you do."

"Do you?", I laugh, pumping my fingers in and out and slowly feeling the familar twitch. How mad will he be when I cum right next to, but without him? I’m eager to find out. Everything that scares me attracts me just as much.

"Morgan, I’m warning you.", he groans, skipping a red traffic light. "You’ll regret that. You stop now."

"Make me.", I say. Two magic words. The thick vein on his sweaty neck looks like it’s about to burst. Slowly, he turns around. His face is a reflection of pure anger and arousal. His eyes are dark, his mouth hangs open. He yanks the steering wheel to the left and I bump my head on the window. We’re on a parking lot now, one big light post in its middle. There’s a little restaurant there, it’s closed already. Niall hits the brakes and gets out of the car, slamming the door so hard the car jerks.

Fuck. Did I overestimate myself and underestimate his words? I don’t care. I want it. I want him. I was so close to cumming and I need him to finish it.

He walks around the car, opens my door and grabs my arm to pull me off the seat. I fall to the floor and he drags me across the asphalt until I’m back on my feet.

"Why are you so impatient? Do you want me so bad?", he snarls, almost crushing my jaw with his big hand. I just nod.

"You’re a gross girl, Morgan.", he says, scrunching his face as if I disgusted him and then, he fucking spits on my face. "You’re worse than me. I should have known. You don’t deserve a reward anymore. You deserve a punishment."

He’s furios, serious or not. “Are you scared of me?”, he asks, once again. And I nod, once again.

"Well you should be. Let’s just hope that nobody catches us. They’ll think I hurt you against your will. They don’t know that you want to get hurt. They don’t know what a fucking whore you are. They can’t imagine someone with a face like yours is so fucking perverted."

Well, they can’t imagine the same if it comes to him, too.

He slaps my face with his free hand. “I’m mad at you for teasing me like that. You always make me so fucking mad, Morgan. You’re like a fucking demon that’s possessing me.”

I feel the urge to tell him I feel exactly the same about him, but I can’t talk. I just look at him, waiting, longing for him to finally fuck me.

"And I thought I’m the one in control. I thought I got myself a little slave, but you’re so much more, Morgan. And you have no idea.", he groans.

Then, he grabs my arm again and pulls me towards the restaurant, pushing me against the brick wall as soon as we get there. “Hold still and keep your mouth shut.”

This is like a fucked up roleplay I’ve always secretly wanted to try. I left my panties in the car, it only requires Niall to hastily pull my dress up and his pants down again. But before he rams his cock into me, he slaps my ass so hard I can’t help but scream out.

"What did I tell you!", he hisses, putting his hand on my mouth. "You keep that shut or I’ll just make you suck me off again. You don’t want that, do you? You want Daddy to fuck you and you should consider yourself lucky because I’m gracious enough to satisfy your needs, so you better do what I tell you."

I nod and kiss his palm, feeling him smile against my neck. His hard on against my butt cheek makes my entire fucking uterus tense up. I want him so bad. I stick my ass out, spread my legs and put my hands on the brick wall.

"Good girl.", he praises me and reaches between my thighs with his free hand, cupping my wet center and dragging his middle finger along my slit. "Did sucking my cock get you so wet? I should make you do it more often. But we got plenty of time for that, baby."

Without a warning, he shoves his cock in, starting to rub my clit at the same time. I’m knocked out for a good minute, unable to feel anything but the sweet pain he causes me as he pounds into me. He bends his fingers on my mouth to make me suck them and I whimper again, because I can’t contain how good it feels to have him taking me like this.

He’s raw and it hurts, he’s definetely overstimulating my already way too sensitive clit and all I want is to cum. I wish he’d allow me to moan, but the only sound on the parking lot is his flesh smacking against mine and his raspy groans.

"Those damn little whimpers only make me want to fuck you harder.", he then whispers into my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. He takes his hand off my mouth and pinches my nipple, then reaches back and slaps my ass again. He squeezes my butt check, steadily thrusting into me.

"Aren’t you gonna cum? Don’t you like the way I fuck you?"

My head bumps against the brick wall and I know I bashed my fucking forehead. I’m bleeding I guess. Niall spanks me a last time before he wraps his hand around my throat. He loves being this brutal and I love it, too, even though it really starts to hurt. Do we even have a safe word? I’ll let him push me to my limits, though. It’s not like I didn’t intend on this.

My walls tighten around him now, my whole body is trembling.

"Come on, babe, I know that you love it.", he groans. He’s probably close to cumming again and I want to cum, too. I want it so bad, but it’s just too much at once. I’ve never been taken like this and I can’t even properly breathe with his hand around my neck, even if it feels like this is just where it belongs. Niall puts his lips on my neck, giving me an unlikely soft kiss, a damn paradox to the way he ravishes me.

"Cum for me.", he whispers. "Come on. You can do it, I know you can. Come,- come", with each thrust, he repeats it: "Come."

And then, I let go. My orgasm makes me forget his stupid order. I cry out his name, completely losing myself in the rush. Niall takes his hand off my throat and finishes himself so he can cum on my back. He cusses and groans, then, he wraps his arms around me and lets me sink against his warm body. “I got you, babe, it’s all good.”, he chuckles. I turn around to kiss him and he shoves his tongue into my mouth.

"I fucking love you.", he groans. Why does he always have to say that? Luckily, he doesn’t seem to expect me to tell him the same, because just when he pulls up his pants, another car stops on the parking lot, much too bright headlights that blind us.

"Oh god." Niall grabs my arm and we start running. I burst out laughing, I lose my shoe, and as soon as we’re in the car, he drives off the lot with squeauling tires, back into the night where we belong.

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

I wake him with a kiss on his forehead. As he opens his eyes, his beauty once again reminds me of how fucking lucky I am to be with him.

"Let me sleep.", he mumbles, trying to wrap his heavy arm around me.

"I have to get up.", I explain. "I got an appointment with my therapist today. Also, your phone’s been ringing nonstop."

I could have answered the calls by a guy called Ted, his manager, I think I remember, but no matter what happened last night, I still don’t feel like the whole “girlfriend” thing should go public. It already did, but I’ll do what I can to keep as much as I can between the two of us.

"But you don’t need a therapist.", Niall murmurs. "You got me. I can make the sadness go away. I can heal you." He’s too tired to think clear, but his words hit a sore spot inside my heart.

"Niall.", I sigh. He close his eyes again, loving the sound of his own name. "I really have to get dressed."

"Don’t you dare going there on your own. I’ll take you there.",he says, turning around to sleep until we really have to leave. If he insists on taking me there, I’ll let him. I don’t want to fight today. Not every damn day.

I scoot to the edge of the bed and pull the blanket off my body. My thighs are covered in bruises and as I stand up and see my reflection, I spot hickeys and little bruises all over my neck and chest. Also, my jaw slightly hurts. I stretch and walk over to my desk, just to check my e-mails. I’m sure I don’t have any. Before I sit down, I walk into the kitchen. There’s a bit of cold coffee left. It tastes like liquid dust, but I drink it up.

I go to the bathroom to pee and wash my face, then I brush my teeth. The usual morning routine. But knowing Niall’s in my flat, sleeping in my bed , makes me feel like I’m observed.

I tiptoe back into the bedroom and sit down at my desk. Like I thought. No new e-mails. I’m about to turn my laptop off again when a sudden thought crosses my mind. I just want to catch up on what they write, and if they wrote anything in first line. So I open the homepage of The Sun and scroll down, looking for any sign of Niall, - or me, but there’s nothing there. Just the usual shocking stories: A man that killed his own mother, two women stabbed and a woman that gave birth to a baby without limbs. How I love that newspaper.

I can barely keeps myself from googling Niall. I turn around to see him wrapped up in my blankets, looking so young and vulnerable, and I wonder if he’s okay, or if he’s suffering, if he needs a damn line or at least a blunt, or a kiss or a blowjob. And I catch myself thinking I’m willing to give it all to him. He’ll probably go to this flat when I’m at my therapist’s anyway.

I get up and walk to the closet. When did I let it get this messy? There’s a pile of shirts inside that look dirty and worn. The shirt Niall wore when he came back after he locked me in his flat’s on top of it. How did it get here? The stain of Nathan’s blood is dark brown. Just now I realise it’s one of the plain shirts I had lent him. Thanks a lot Niall. I put the shirt to the side, together with the others, and take out a comfy top and a denim skirt to wear today.

I comb my hair and walk over to Niall, to wake him again. I kiss the tip of his nose and he grins before even opening his eyes.

"Time to go?", he asks.

"Time to go.", I say.

I watch him get up, stretch. His body is pure perfection, with all its flaws. He puts on the same clothes he wore last night and then we leave together.

It’s been a while since I last saw my therapist. I simply didn’t feel the need to talk about my feelings when I didn’t really have any. That surely changed since I met Niall, but she didn’t even know about him. Unless she read the newspaper, which I assume. I’m actually a little scared she’ll ask me about it as soon as I enter her office.

Niall notices that I’m nervous. “You want me to come in with you?”, he asks, kissing the back of my hand.

"Don’t be silly. Have you ever seen anyone taking their boyf- Their friend to the therapist with them? I didn’t."

He just shrugs and swallows loudly. “I’ll be here in an hour, waiting for you. I got a surprise for you anyway. You’ll love it.”

"Will I?", I ask. What could it be? It’s either perverted or cheesy. Or both. I never liked surprises, but Niall makes me feel excited about the one he’s got in mind for me.

"You will.", he promises. He watches me until I enter the house my therapist’s office is in and I hear him driving off as I climb the stairs.

______________________________________

______________________________________

______________________________________

His phone keeps vibrating in his pockets and he knows it’s Ted. He’s been calling the whole morning through. If there’s any problems with the tickets, Niall knows he’s gonna lose it. He’s gonna show up at Ted’s and smash his fucking face.

"What is it?", he snarls as he finally picks up. "Why are you so fucking annoying, Ted?"

"Niall, there’s something I have to talk to you about.", Ted begins. "There’s been a few problems, concerning the tickets and such and I-"

"You book those tickets.", Niall interrupts him. He knew it. He fucking knew it. He was about to fire this damn bastard so many times. But he never did it. It just felt good to have someone to do your dirty work. Ted even got him drugs occasionally.

"Yes, I will. I really have to, now. After what happened.", Ted mumbles. His voice sounds a little weird and if Niall didn’t know better, he’d assume Ted was crying. "I’ll have to book them in someone elses name."

"Can’t you book them in Morgan’s name?"

"No. It’s like I told you in the texts yesterday, she-"

"Yeah, no need to repeat that.", Niall sighs. "I know."

"Niall, listen, you really shouldn’t do that. With her. You know what I mean. You should distance yourself from her. This is not going to end well. She’s just a-"

"Stop trying to act like my goddamn father, Ted. I know what I’m doing."

"No, you’re not." Ted sounds so desperate. "I know what you’re like. She doesn’t. Did you read the newspaper?"

“‘f course Ted, that’s what we’ve been talking about.” He’s starting to annoy him again.

"But did you read-"

"Ted, I know. I know it all. I know what you want to tell me. Keep it to your fucking self. And book the damn flight. As soon as possible. You know why."

"Yeah. I do. But The Sun kept calling. They’re onto you, Niall, and I feel responsible, I have to tell them that-"

"You keep your fucking mouth shut!", Niall shouts. "I’m gonna hang up now. There’s something I got to get done before we hopefully leave soon.”

"She doesn’t have a fucking clue, does she?", Ted quietly says.

"No. She doesn’t."

Niall puts down the phone and shoves it back into his pockets. He hopes that the damn paps will stay out of his business today. He intentionally parked his car a few streets away from his actual destinantion. He turns his head to check if he’s being followed, though. There’s noone there. He inhales deeply and approaches the front door of the Bethlem Royal Hospital, quite a cute name for an Asylum, taking two stairs at once.

_______________________________

_______________________________

_______________________________

"How have you been?", my therapist asks, crossing her legs. She turns her pen between her fingers as usual, and her brown eyes are glued to my face.

"Not too bad.", I say, faking a smile. What am I supposed to tell her? That I suddenly feel again? So much I’m afraid it might kill me? In the literal sense, regarding Niall’s scary behaviour? "I got to know a boy."

"So it was you." She smirks, taking a note on her clipboard. "I thought my eyes were deceiving me first. But then I realised that there’s nothing that shocking about it. Despite the fact that Niall Horan is a public person, meeting a boy and going out with him seems pretty average for a girl your age and I’m proud you’re busy doing such normal things. Are you going out much?"

She blows a wisp of her short grey hair from off her forehead and smiles when she sees I’m nodding. “That’s good.”, she praises me. “Not to those clubs where you don’t talk to anyone?”

"No. Well, I went there last night. But Niall was with me.", I explain. It’s hard to say his name in front of someone else. It’s almost like telling a dark, forbidden secret.

"Is he always with you?", my therapist wants to know. I wonder if I should mention the extent of Niall’s overprotective character, butI just nod again and say: "He takes good care of me."

"That makes me very happy." She clears her throat and I know she’s gonna continue with something that won’t make me happy at all. "I still need to ask you about if what the newspaper wrote is true."

"It’s not.", I quickly say. "I can confirm that."

"Can you?"

"I sure can." I keenly nod, hoping she doesn’t think I’m lying. For some reason, I sometimes suspect her of thinking that I’m a bloody liar.

"Would you say that the relationship you’re in, with Niall, is… healthy?"

Fuck. She shouldn’t have asked this. No, of course it’s not. It’s very unhealthy. It’s dreadful, it hurts, it crosses my limits and it makes my stomach turn, it makes me feel like I’m losing the last bits of my mind, but it’s different from the unhealthy habits of the past because other than cutting and all the shit I pulled, being with Niall feels good. And it makes me happy. From deep within. Maybe I should tell her that. But somehow, I can’t. Instead, I just nod: “The healthiest I’ve experienced in a long time.”

I know that will ease her. She takes some more notes and looks up from her clipboard with a little smile on her pale face. I wonder what she looked like when she was younger. In her office, with the caramel colored walls and dark leather chairs, she’s just her job. But sometimes I think of her as the person she is as soon as her last client leaves. Just a woman that has to put up with insane people’s shit on a daily basis. Including me. I wonder if she likes me. I think she does. If she didn’t, she’d be a lot stricter with me. There was time when I saw her every other day. It was that bad. But she had found trust in me. Believed me when I told her I’d be okay. And here I am. More than okay. Despite the bruises, despite the fear. Better than I ever was.

"Are you in love with Niall?", she then asks.

I swallow. I could tell her. She won’t tell him. I really could. Nodding has never been this exhausting. “I think so.”, I mumble.

She writes it down. “Be careful, Morgan.”, she says in a warning tone. “You know what I’m talking about.”

I put my hand on my throat to cover the hickeys, but I know she already saw them anyway. So I just look down on my hands and say “I promise I will.”

"What about your mother?", she wants to know. I only then realise that my mum hasn’t been bugging me with her damn questions for quite a while either. "Did she call again?"

"No.", I reply, wondering why. I should call her later, maybe, just to check on if she’s okay. I completely forgot about her and her stupid Dylan crap. "We haven’t really talked since I met Niall."

"I see." How many notes fit on that piece of paper? I’d love to see what exactly she’s writing down when she talks to me. Sometimes I imagine she just draws dicks with arms and weapons or any other kind of weird shit. If I was her, I’d have a hard time staying sane. "Would you want to tell your mother about Niall? In case she hasn’t seen it in the newspaper already?"

"Well, I think she didn’t.", I remark. "She would have called right away if she did. You know what my mother is like."

My therapist just sighs. Knowingly. I talk about my mother and father quite a lot when I’m here, even though it makes me feel like a fucking loser afterwards.

"So, let’s assume she didn’t. What would you tell her?"

"Nothing I guess.", I confess. I really wouldn’t want her to ask me about Niall all the time. She’d probably want damn autograph or something. I’m getting sick just thinking of it. "I wouldn’t want to tell her about Niall I think. I don’t want her to know."

"Hmhm." My therapist writes that down, too. "I understand that."

We remain silent for a while. I’m close to biting my nails because I’m nervous when my therapist points at my neck. “I’m not going to act like I didn’t see these.”, she says in a calm tone.

I blush and bite my lip.

"Did Niall do that? You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to."

"No, it’s okay.", I lie. "Yes, it was him."

"During sex?"

"During sex."

She takes notes, again, and I feel close to standing up and taking that damn clipboard to throw it out of the fucking window.

"So it’s still the same. Roughness arouses you." She raises her brows and clicks her tongue. I know she won’t judge me and it’s not like she doesn’t already know, yet nodding feels like undressing in front of her.

"Are you submissive?" I can imagine why it matters to talk about that. The whole submission and domination thing has a fucking lot to do with your mental health, your past, and who you really are. I guess if I tell her that I am, she’ll automatically connect the dots and come to the conclusion that it’s my father’s fault. I can’t ever tell her that I call Niall Daddy.

"Yes, mostly.", I confess though.

"And when you’re dominant, can you control yourself?", she asks.

"What do you mean?" I laugh, even though I’m not amused at all. "I haven’t tried dominating Niall. I doubt he’d let me."

"I see.", she sighs and repeats "Be careful."

"Yeah, I’ll be careful.", I snarl. I’m actually getting angrier at her each second. "Of course I will."

"Morgan, please calm down." She raises her hand and gives me a reproaching look.

I dig my nails into the palms of my sweaty hands and try to contain myself. Sometimes, I just wanna throw over the fucking table between us and ask her since when it’s anybody elses business to take notes on my damn private life. Then I remember she’s just doing her job and trying to keep me safe from the monsters.

"Did you cut?", she then asks.

I nod and show her the scars. “Niall was there for me.”, I quickly explain. “He held me and told me that he’s there for me.”

"That’s very sweet of him.", my therapist says. Despite how upset I am, I hope she’s not too disappointed in me for relapsing. "He seems like a good guy."

Well, at least for me.

"Is there anything else you want to talk about?"

I shake my head, trying to erase the picture of Nathan from my head. I’m not going to mention that I lost my job because she’ll keep asking until I accidentally tell her Niall almost beat my boss to death. And blood. All the blood. It feels like it’s flooding my brain.

"Good.", she says and smiles. "I think we’re done for today. Call if you need me. Unless anything happens, I’ll see you in a month. And remember. Be careful."

"Yeah, yeah.", I mumble, shaking her cold hand. She almost drops the clipboard. I can’t resist to ask this one question that’s been bugging me for ages.

"Where do you put the notes you take during our sessions?"

"You know you’ve got your own file. All of my patients have their own file.", she explains and I feel like a stupid little child.

"And where do you keep them?"

"Well, yours is in my other office at the Bethlem Royal.", she says. "But no, Morgan. You’re not getting access to it."

"I wasn’t asking to access it. I don’t even wanna know what you write about me.", I chuckle. Well, that was a lie. But I really don’t want her to worry about me breaking into the Blablabla Royal and stealing my file. "I was just wondering."

"Okay.", she says with a smile as she guards me to the door. "Have a nice afternoon."

"You, too." I close the door behind me and walk to the window to check if he’s already out there waiting for me. And he is, looking straight up at me, with a big smile on his face.


	14. Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flight and flight are perfect homonyms.

His phone’s buzzing in his pockets, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in answering the call at all.

"Niall.", I remind him. "Someone’s trying to reach you."

"I don’t care.", he casually says with a shrug, keeping his eyes on the road in front of us. "There’s nothing that could be more important than being with you."

"Don’t be silly." He’s really a bit over the top with his what he thinks are compliments. "I don’t mind. In fact, I’m asking you to pick up that damn phone because whoever it is, he or she isn’t gonna hang up too soon it seems."

“She?”, he repeats me, completely ignoring my request. “I’m not talking to any other girls but you.”

He’s so eager to prove me that I’m the only one for him, it makes me sick. It’s adorable, in the worst way ever, and it makes me feel like I’m not allowed to only look at other men. Which I am, in fact, not, because I have never met anyone as jealous as Niall. And I am jealous, too. Insanely jealous, in all honesty, but I don’t need him to remind me that there’s no reason to worry.

"Your mother maybe.", I suggest.

He looks at me and frowns. “My mother is dead, Morgan.”

I swallow hard. Something inside of me stirs. It’s like his words awoke a monster. Is it sorrow? Is it grief? Is it my bad conscience for not calling my own mum? I hold my stomach as if whatever rears up in me could break through my organs and skin.

"I’m so fucking sorry.", I say, barely able to speak. He’s all pale, watching my face with big eyes like there was anything in it.

"No, I’m sorry.", he quickly responds. "I shouldn’t have said that. It was inappropriate to bring up a topic like that when we’re in a good mood. I apologise."

"No, it’s okay.", I say and put my hand on his leg. "I just didn’t know. For whatever reason."

He turns away again and hits the brakes at a red traffic light. His phone is still vibrating.

"Niall, pick up, for fuck’s sake.", I beg. "It’s so annyoing. It’s probably your manager guy, right? Or Liam. Just pick up the damn phone."

"Oh, I’m sure it’s Ted.", he mumbles and I’m not quite sure if I was supposed to hear that. He just shakes his head, though. "I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone but you. Isn’t there anything you want to know?"

"What do you mean?", I ask, but then I remember. "The surprise!"

He mentioned there was something he needed to tell me after therapy and even though I’ve never liked surprises, I really wanted to know what this weird man had in mind to do with me.

"Exactly.", he says with a smile. I just now realise we’re driving to my place. "Are you excited?"

"Scared, to be honest."

"The usual.", he chuckles. "I know that already. And it’s good, you know that, too. Just reasonable."

"Just reasonable.", I repeat and roll my eyes. "To be scared of the man that fucks you on a parking lot like a cheap whore."

He quietly laughs and bites his lower lip before he parks the car and gets out to open the door for me, too. “Hurry a little, won’t you?”, he bids and grabs my arm to drag me to the door. He seems a little jumpy, yet happily excited. At least his phone has stopped vibrating.

He stops at the front door and finally takes the phone out of his pockets to check the screen. I can tell he’s reading a text. He frowns, nods and grumbles “Okay.”

"So?", I ask. "Who was it?"

"Ted. Like you said.", he answers. "My manager."

"Yeah. And what does he want?"

"Nothing of importance.", Niall says, downplaying the situtation as usual. I wanna kick him in the face. Nothing of importance? What is he hiding from me now? I hate how he reminded me there’s no reason to be jealous just a moment ago, and now he keeps me in the dark of his aura once more, wondering who he actually is. Maybe it’s really just not important. Maybe it has to do something with what we’re up to now.

"Is the surprise in my flat?", I ask, acting as if I didn’t care about the text.

"No. We just need something from your flat.", Niall explains, opening the door as if he lived here and making me climb the stairs in front of him. He slaps me ass to make me go a little faster and once we reach my flat, I’m out of breath.

I unlock the door and let Niall pull me in. He heads straight to the bedroom and I follow.

"Niall, what’s going on?", I ask. "What do we need?"

"Pack your stuff, we’re leaving.", he then says. Smiling at me. As if he really thought that I would like to hear that. Is this the damn surprise? I know why I hate surprises.

I thought about running away with him. So often. Nothing really keeps me here. And I want to be with him all the time, despite it all. But just leave? Like this? I don’t know if I can do that. And right now, it would, for whatever reason, feel like we were escaping. From Nathan or the press or the monsters in the walls of Niall’s apartment, yet knowingly taking the monsters in our brains to wherever we’d go with us.

I can’t explain why, but since our last fight and the sex on the parking lot, I’ve grown more attached to him. I know I should have left him when he locked me or after he beat Nathan up, but a sick part of me actually appreciated his “concern” in that aspect.

I know it’s wrong, but I’ve stopped giving a damn about what’s good and what’s bad for me the moment I allowed him to put his mouth between my legs and tear the sheds of my heart out of my chest with his sweet words and crazy vows. I know I’ll probably change my mind about it all tomorrow. Hate him. Hate myself. The constant confusion about my own feelings might just be a proof of how attached I really am.

"Niall, wh-where are we going?", I stutter, watching him pulling my suitcase out from under my bed. How does he know it is there? For how long has he been planning on leaving with me?

"Hollywood, darling.", he says in a low voice, trying to make me laugh when he knows how clueless I am. He opens my closet and starts throwing random clothes into the suitcase.

"You’re not gonna need a pullover or a coat there.", he explains, picking out my tops and dresses.

"Niall, stop." I reach out to pull the blood stained shirt out of his hands, but he slaps my fingers and shoves it into the suitcase.

"Do you think I’ll wear that?", I ask, laughing at him.

He freezes and looks at me with cold eyes. “Evidence.”, he says in a strict tone.

It’s an escape. For fuck’s sake, I knew it. Deep down inside, I knew it. Did Nathan tell the police? Are they onto Niall? What about the drugs? What about all the other piles of shit he stepped in with his ragged Nikes? What about me? The rumours? I shouldn’t worry. And I wouldn’t have worried. A month ago, I wouldn’t have cared at all. But Niall made me so fucking sensitive. So fucking vulnerable.

"Niall, stop.", I repeat, clenching my fists. He just doesn’t listen to me. He walks to my desk and puts my make up and brush into my cosmetic bag, then proceeds to empty my underwear and nightwear drawer.

"We gotta be at Heathrow in one and a half hours.", he mutters. I stand in the middle of my room, feeling like my body is suddenly too big for what I think my soul is. I am lost in this vessel of flesh and bones, screaming on the inside, but he can’t hear me. My head is spinning. It’s not like a part of me isn’t literally happy and almost eased that Niall is literally about to elope with me. But this is not our goddamn honeymoon. This is an actual flight. This is us running away from a menace with an extent and meaning I can’t appraise. I feel like I’m missing out on the why. The last straw. And deep down in my dizzy brain, I know the answer. But I can’t fucking grip it.

I watch Niall bustling through my room. His frown is deep, his lips slightly parted. He hasn’t shaved in a while. The stubble on his cheeks scratched me when we kissed as he picked me up from therapy.

"Anything else you need? You’re not gonna need socks. Shoes! But only two pairs. Tampons? Any other cosmetics?"

He, once again, sounds like he believes he’s my father. I’m so lost inside my shell. I’m so mad, so angry, so fucking puzzled.

"Niall, for fuck’s sake, stop!", I suddenly shout, so loud it hurts my throat.

Niall flinches and turns around like a predator that has smelled his prey. His eyes widen and I can watch his pupils focus. Now, he’s listening to me. I bet he didn’t see that coming. Neither did I.

"I don’t understand!", I bellow. "Why do we have to leave at the drop of a hat, like, why now? What happened? What did you do? I don’t wanna leave like this. I got a job, I got friends-"

Well, I had Lucy, and I know that maybe I’d miss her a little, at least knowing she’d miss me made me feel sorry for thinking that I could do without her and it was just a lie to make Niall believe that it would be better to stay and honestly, I didn’t give a damn about the job at the dog parlour now that I lost the important one anyway, but there was also my therapist whom I had to see. She’d wonder where I went. She surely wouldn’t approve of this. Because I know that this isn’t going to be a two week long vacation. I can surely sense that Niall’s planning on staying in Hollywood. Will I ever be able to fully realise what’s happening in whatever you call what once was an existence but changed into more than just a plain life thanks to an insane man and his kisses only? I don’t think so.

"They don’t matter.", Niall snarls. "None of those people matter. Just you and I, okay? We matter. And that’s why we’re leaving. I didn’t plan on doing it so quick, too. But it’s better off this way."

"Better because?", I shout as my eyes fill with tears. "I don’t understand! Explain it to me!"

Niall crosses the room and cups my face in the palms of his big hand, pressing his lips on my forehead as if he didn’t know how furious I was. He’s just crazy, so immune to the emotions of people around him sometimes. Even mine. Or maybe he’s just pretending. Trying to calm me down a little. I don’t know. It feels good to be held, but it doesn’t really help me.

"You’ll understand in time, Morgan. I’ll explain you later.", he whispers. "But you have to trust me for now."

"How do I trust someone like you?", I reply, barely able to speak because I try so hard not to start crying. "I mean, you know I trust you. But I’m still afraid of who you really are. I don’t know why, so please tell me, why and how do I trust you?"

"I could ask you the exact same question.", Niall just mumbles, wipes my tears away and kisses me on the lips. His eyes seem dark, his voice is low. "I love you, Morgan, and that’s why I trust you. You went from that strange girl in the blue lights to my goddamn guardian angel and I think you always were meant to be with me anyway. I wanted you, so I got you. And you’re mine and you come with me. Because I’m yours, too. That’s how it is. Quite simple, isn’t it? And, anyway, you have no other choice. If you’re not freely coming with me, I’ll make you.”

"Niall, you can’t just keep acting like you can decide on me!", I bawl. I wish I’d sound more serious, but I can’t stop sobbing like a pathetic little child.

"Baby, hey.", he whispers and kisses me again before he wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into a hug so tight I’m afraid he’ll crush my spine. "I know what’s best for you. Believe me. And your job or your friend Lucy, baby, all that doesn’t matter, okay? You got me and I got you and that’s all that counts. I know you won’t say that you love me, but I love you and we need to go. You’ll understand one day, Morgan. Now come, we need to pick up some stuff from my flat, too and then get the tickets from Ted."

I rub my face against his neck and nod, even though I feel unable to follow him. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Anger would be reasonable in this situation. But why do I sob like I’m scared? The voices are quiet for once but I wish they’d tell me. Am I sensing something again or are my instincts simply decieving me after I’ve ignored them for so long?

Niall kisses my forehead again and lets go of me. He turns his face and if I didn’t know better, I’d be sure he’s crying, too.

__________________________

__________________________

__________________________

He stands by the office window, hands in his pockets, eyes on the street below. He feels crumbs under his fingertips. Dog treats. Whenever he could, he went for a walk with the pomeranians his wife adopted but never cared half as much for as he did. William and Kate. She chose those silly names. He missed them more than her. Sometimes, he brought them to work. Thinking of Niall playing with them made him smile despite his bad mood.

"You look like a proper faggot with the dogs.", his wife said whenever she saw him coming back from one of his walks. "They’re women’s dogs."

He still wonders how there can be dogs for women and dogs for men, but his wife calling him a faggot was ironically amusing.

And there was the reason why. Niall parks the car right on the lot in front of the building. As soon as he gets out, he looks up the window, knowing Ted’s up there, waiting. He raises his arm to greet him, but Ted doesn’t wave back. He just watches. Niall walks around the car and opens the door on the passenger side. Ted feels the lump in this throat swell. He really doesn’t want to see her, let alone be in the same room as her.

But it seems as if Niall is just telling her to stay in the car. Playing the possesive boyfriend. Ted can only dream of being ordered about by Niall like this. It was ridiculous that he had these fantasies when he was the one who had to watch over and take care of him. Well, not for much longer.

He turns to his desk to look at the big envelope. The tickets. He did his very best. It was more complicated than he had ever thought. And what he found out trying to purchase these had drastically changed his view on Niall and his affairs. It’s still so hard to believe. And knowing that Niall is probably fully aware of what he’s doing makes Ted question himself. Is he too drawn to Niall to realise it was time to step out of the shadow he casts? He’s making himself liable to prosecution by handing him the tickets.

But now that it knocks at his door and he crosses the room to open it and let Niall in, now that he pulls him into a short, friendly hug and looks him in the eyes just long enough to make his stomach turn, he knows he’s been supporting a criminal for too long to be a fair minded man now. It’s going to be over soon, anyway.

And this is the last time he sees him. So he might as well be the reliable, father like friend he’d been for the past years. Not the best manager because he was too emotionally involved for his business, but still closer to the man he loved than thousands of women and other men in a similar situation had ever been. It’s been a good time, after all.

"The tickets.", Niall says in an impatient tone. "I’m glad you got them."

"So am I.", Ted lies. "Why didn’t you pick up the phone?"

"Morgan was in the car with me. You could have just stopped calling me and sent the text right away, huh? You fucking dumbass."

Ted swallows and walks to the desk to pick up the envelope. “Here you are.”

Niall quickly snatches it.

"I need to remind you of the airport controls and all that. I’m talking the drugs, Niall.", Ted says in a low voice. "You have to be careful."

"I’m not taking any with me. I can do without them for the flight. I got a dealer in the States, Ted, who do you think I am?" He chuckles and shakes his head, acting as if buying coke was the most casual thing in the world. "I need you to do me another favour."

"One more?"

What else? What more obstacles are there to overcome before it is all over?

Niall nods and leans forward to whisper into Ted’s ear as if anyone else was listening. He doesn’t know how much it hurts Ted to feel him this close. He inhales, exhales and then, he says it.

"I need two alibis."

_______________________

_______________________

_______________________

Even through the closed door, house walls and windows, I can hear them shouting at each other. I can’t understand a single word but I know they’re both angry. And it worries me. Not because I’m afraid that Niall is in danger. No. Niall could cause it. And whoever Ted is, I sure as hell don’t want him to be the next Nathan.

"Stay in the fucking car.", is what Niall said before he left. Then, he kissed my nose. "I’ll be back in a blink, princess."

But I’m not gonna sit here and wait and listen to the argument on the third floor, I’m not gonna wait for him to come back. He was so eager to leave as quick as possible and now, he’s been up there for about fifteen minutes. The songs on the radio are pure shit today. I’m warm, my eyes still burn from crying and for some reason, the scars on my arm itch.

I take a deep breath of the thick nicotine air in the car and open the seatbelt.

The front door is open. The staircase stinks like piss and I wonder how on earth Niall met Ted and how the fuck he’s supposed to be a serious manager.

I run up to his office and bang my fist on the door. “Hey!”, I shout. “Open the fucking door or come out Niall, I thought we have to hurry.”

The men inside shut up and a second later, a bald man opens the door. His eyes widen at my sight, his jaw drops. He takes a step back as if my appearance shocked him in some way. I wonder if the crying made me look this ugly, because he stares at me like I’m a fucking vampire. Terrified, almost.

I ignore him, I just know I’m never going to see this man again after this. Niall’s at the other side of the office, his face is pale, he’s huffing.

"For how long are you gonna keep me waiting?", I ask him.

"I told you to stay in the fucking car.", he growls. He really goes from tender angel to absolute asshole within minutes today. "I told you not to follow me. You should not be here."

"I don’t give a fuck about this office and whatever sick shit you transact here. I just want you to come now before I change my mind about the whole thing. You want to leave so bad, then come."

All of sudden, Ted bursts out laughing. I turn my head so quick I hear my neck crack. What on earth is he laughing about?

"So you really lied to me?", he snorts, looking at Niall with his mouth wide open.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut, Ted.", Niall snarls and clenches his fists.

I have no clue what they’re talking about. This day has been the most confusing day in my life so far. I wish I could call my therapist and ask her what to do. But she’d only tell me to break things off with Niall. And I can’t. Even now, and juststands there, in front of the bookshelf, with thick veins on his arms, the shirt sticking to his body, his eyes dark and full of anger, I want him so much it could kill me. I want to grab his face and tear off his skin to look through his skull and see all the secrets he’s hiding. And I want to gauge out his eyes and reach through the holes to grab and shove them down my throat so I got them safe inside of me.

I also just want to stab him and return to my old existence. But I can’t. I’m his.

"I’m not going to keep my mouth shut, Niall. You have to tell her!", Ted shouts, pointing at me.

"Tell me what?", I demand to know. "Niall, what is he talking about?"

"Bullshit, babe, he’s talking pure bullshit."

"What have you done, Niall?"

"Oh, nothing!", Ted laughs. "Nothing. He’s just ruining your life, Miss! Not that it’s not meant to end in a catastrophe anyway."

Well, what else is new? Ruining, yet saving it. And how much worse could it get? Not much.

"So?", I ask. "This is none of your fucking business"

"She has no idea.", Ted giggles. "She has no fucking clue!”

Whatever’s going on here, it scares the living shit out of me. I feel the need to reach out and hold Niall’s hand, make him hug me, hold me, but I can’t move.

"Ted, will you please calm down. Do me the fucking favour, Ted." Niall tries so hard to sound serious. I can tell how damn enraged he is. I finally manage to take a step forward and take his hand. He wraps his fingers around my wrist and looks at me. "It’s okay.", he mouths. "We’ll be out in a few minutes."

"Niall, for as long as I know you, I’ve been doing you favours." Ted shakes his head, still smiling like a maniac. Is everyone around me mental?

"Yeah, like the thing with The Sun lately, right?", Niall sarcastically hisses. "Good one, Ted. Listen, I know you do your best. And I know your dirty little secret, too."

"What do you mean?" Ted’s smile dies and fades into a mask of fear.

"Come on!", Niall chuckles, gripping my wrist so tight it hurts. "I know you cheat on your wife with twinks you meet at the cheap bars you go to. And I know you jack off to me. Do you think I’m that blind?"

I can’t fucking deal with this anymore. Is Niall implying his manager is in love with him?

"Niall." Ted’s voice cracks. He surely didn’t want him to say this out loud.

"No, stop. I’ve stayed your client. I’ve put my trust in you. And I trust nobody. Well, I trust Morgan. And that’s it. If you disappoint me this time, it’s over.", Niall says in a strict tone.

He’s about thirty years younger than the bald man in front of us, but he’s still got him under control.

Ted nods, unable to look either of us in the eyes.

"It’s all over now anyway.", Ted mumbles. "I told you, Niall. I think they know."

"And I told you to keep them from really knowing!”, Niall shouts. “We’ve talked about this. I said it all. As long as they only suspect it-“

"But it actually happened. And the call I got, Niall, I-" Ted’s whining like a dying dog. I’d be sorry for him if I could. If I could feel anything but pure confusion now. "She warned me.”

"Don’t be so damn dramatic, Ted. Anyone could warn you of me. You know me."

"You?", Ted just laughs. Nothing makes sense. I turn to the only man I trust, a liar.

Niall seems a little taller than usual. Maybe it’s just because I feel like a child in a foreign country. A country full of thieves and murderes, monsters and ghosts. The office is small, stuffy, messy. A prison of pine and plastic. And there’s something in the room with us. It sticks on Niall like his shirt to his body, it knocks on my brain, it sits on Ted’s tongue like a little demon, yet it fills the room like a dark spirit. The truth.

"Niall, they’ll find you. You’ll have two weeks, three maybe. Maybe a month. But they’ll find you. She’ll lure them." He points at me. "Like the fucking siren she is."

"Excuse me?", I shout. Once again, a jealous man is attacking me, it’s almost funny. But what does he mean, I’ll "lure" them? "Would you please, um, refrain from insulting me? This isn’t about me."

"You don’t know, do you? It’s all about you.” Ted grins at me a I watch a single tear run down his wrinly face.

"Enough!", Niall shouts, so loud, so fucking full-scale it makes me flinch. "Stop talking to her! And look at me! If it doesn’t work the friendly way, I’ll tell you like it is. You drop a hint, you’re dead. Get it?"

Is Niall threatening to kill his manager? I don’t know if Ted understood what he said, but he’s laughing again.

"Niall, as soon as you’re out of the fucking door, I will take the gun from my top drawer, put it on my desk, lean back in my chair, have a final wank, over you, Niall, just so you know, then shed a tear for my dogs and put the fucking barell into my mouth and pull the goddamn trigger. I got it all figured out. My job is done. I told you about the alibis. I said it all. It’s all done. You leave with her and I’ll leave, too. Our fate is alike, Niall. Maybe, if you were as much of a gay bastard as I am, and thank god I’m finally able to say it out loud, my god, I’ve been keeping this secret for way too long, we’d make a cute couple. Almost as psychotic and sick as you two." He winks at me. "Even though I’m sure it’s hard to be more of a mess than your cute little girlfriend is. Have fun while you can."

I didn’t quite notice how he walked backwards, closer to his desk. He opens the drawer and, in fact, picks up a gun.

The sight of it hits me like a straight punch in the face. Niall protectively wraps his arm around me.

"Put it down.", he tells Ted. "Put the damn gun down, Ted."

"Don’t be silly, Niall. As if I’m gonna shoot myself in front of you. Then they’d suspect you of that murder, too! Ha! We sure don’t want that, do we?" He’s laughing, laughing, laughing, and I only just now realise I’m crying again. My heart is racing, I’m shaking like crazy. The voices in my head have come back to life, they scream at the top of their sore lungs. I want him to put the gun down, I want him to put the gun down, I want him to put the gun down!

"You better leave now. Catch your flight. Have fun in Hollywood. Maybe make her a star, huh? Wouldn’t the press love that?", Ted giggles, waving the damn gun around.

"Come, baby.", Niall whispers into my ear. "I got you, come, come with me. We’re leaving. I got you. Keep your eyes open, baby. I got you."

His grip is so tight, he hurts me. He lifts me in his arms and leaves the office. I look at Ted and he winks at me. I watch my hands hitting Niall’s chest, I’m kicking my feet, asking him to put me down, but he throws me over his shoulder like his brute.

"It’s all good, babe, we’re leaving, we’re leaving, we’re leaving."

His voice guides me through the dark that suddenly surrounds me and the last thing I hear before I faint on the staircase is a muffled “Swallow these.”

_____________________________

_____________________________

_____________________________

"She was feeling so sick. I gave her sleeping pills." This is my favourite voice in the whole world talking.

"I see.", another voice replies. "You’re taking good care of her. That makes me happy. I hope you get your mind off the other issues thanks to her. She’s really pretty."

"Yes, she is. And yes. She’s a nice distraction. She’s a blessing."

More a curse than a blessing, a voice inside of my heavy head adds. I hear a quiet, constant buzzing and a heart beat. I feel warm breath on my forehead and fingers with raw tips stroking my back.

The second voice, raspy and deep, sounds familar. A nice british accent and for some reason, it think of butterflies. I know we’re flying. And also, the image of a butterfly of ink on tan skin appears in front of my closed lids. I can’t open them yet. I wonder if I’m still asleep, caught in one of those lucid dreams. Maybe I’m having a sleep paralysis.

"Maybe you want to come to the studio with me some time. How long did you say you were staying in L.A with her?"

"For as long as we can.", Niall replies, kissing my forehead. I press my head against his chest. He’s so warm.

"And where are you staying?", the second voice wants to know.

"Oh, I’ve got a nice little place there.", Niall explains.

"Really? I didn’t know. Last time you visited me, you wrecked my living room. So I guess it’s better if you stay at your own place, isn’t it?" The second voice chuckles but I can tell the man doesn’t mean it. Even though I’m still half asleep I can sense that Niall and the other one don’t honestly like each other. Anymore. Which saddens a part of me. Wasn’t one of my classmates back then passionate about the so called ship Narry?

Finally, I manage to move my toe and slowly open my eyes. I look straight into a pair of green ones but I turn my head to see the face I really want to see. Niall’s holding me in his arm. We’re on a plane, like I knew, but not a normal one. This is a fucking private jet. And Niall, Harry and I are the only passengers.

Harry’s sitting in a white leather seat in front of us, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in his hands. He’s dressed in black and looks exactly like he always did. There’s just a few little wrinkles around his sharp jawline and a stubble on his cheeks. The private jet is a sure proof. Harry seems to have handled his money the best. He looks fucking rich.

Unnecessarily, I ask “Where are we?”

"Good morning, darling.", Harry says and raises his glass to greet me. "Thought you wouldn’t wake up before we land!"

Niall sighs, so quiet Harry can’t hear it. But I do. He’s, of course, offended by him calling me darling. “Good morning, babe.”, he mumbles and puts his hand under my chin to make me kiss him.

"We’re over the Atlantic Ocean."

"I’m flying.", I mutter. I feel like I’m on drugs. Do sleeping pills do that to you?

"You should take a look out of the window. The view is amazing.", Harry says, getting up from his chair. He’s so tall and slender, a completely different kind of skinny than Niall. He walks to the coffee machine at the other side of the jet. "I think you need an espresso."

"Look, babe.", Niall whispers in my ear, ignoring Harry. He turns my head to make me look out of the round window. Harry was right. It’s breathtaking. Thick, light blue clouds hover over the dark ocean, looking like cotton candy made of ice. I put my hand on the glass as if I could reach out and touch the clouds. Niall puts his head on my shoulder and looks out of the window with me, his arm still wrapped around my waist.

"Everything’s going to be okay.", he says and kisses my temple. "I promise."

______________________________

______________________________

______________________________

He couldn’t cum. Actually, he believed in God and he was really mad at him for not even granting him a single last orgasm before he’d blow his brains out. Maybe he hated him because he finally said it. And with that, made it true. And official. He wishes his wife would have heard it. Instead of desperately trying to get off, he proceeded to do the two last things that mattered. It would only be over sooner. The sooner, the better.

He grabbed his phone and deleted the last two calls. Harry Styles andDoctor Rossdale. Then, he took out a picture of his wife with William and Kate in her arms. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t.

When he checked his phone to make sure he really deleted the history, he scrolled through his gallery, though. Found a picture of Niall. Felt his throat getting tighter. His heart skip a beat. In a few seconds, it would be still forever.

Niall was so stupid, so fucking dumb. If he went to hell, and he could in a week or two, Ted would be right there waiting for him to kick his fucking ass. And maybe ask him for forgiveness. But hell seemed to much like the girl who broke into his office. The girl Niall loved. Really loved. He could tell by the way he looked at her that he wasn’t just infatuated, he was obsessed. And so was she.

Ted felt his lunch crawling up his gullet, but he stuffed his mouth with the barrel, wasted a last tear on the boy who could have done so much better and pulled the trigger.


	15. Shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking liquor from a strange girl's lips like the lies from your man's mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a lot of sex. Just thought I'd say that.

m still tired as we land.

The flight was long and boring. Harry kept talking about his upcoming album and I tried to sleep in Niall’s arms, but after my slumber on whatever drugs he gave me, I couldn’t. There were too many questions I needed to ask him, but not with Harry around.

There were two other men on the jet, with beards, in suits and sunglasses. I think they mentioned their names but I forgot them right away. I also can’t remember how we got on the jet. I don’t know if we’ve actually even been at Heathrow. Why would we need tickets for a private jet anyway? My head’s buzzing from all these unsolved riddles and I think back to the night where a difficult sudoku was the worst of them.

Throught the flight, Harry kept babbling and Niall acted interested, gaping and nodding as if he was amazed by his friend’s plans. It seemed as if Harry was still kind of wanted in the music industry. I’m sure listening to that upset Niall and I held his hand the whole time through.

The second question I need to get answered was what on earth has Ted been talking about? He dropped so many things I didn’t understand and even though his exact words are covered in the fog the pills brought up in my brain, I still know that some of the hint like things he dropped were quite alarming.

But I couldn’t ask Niall yet.

We land on a private area, under violet sky. The sun’s setting in the western of America. Harry guides us over the hot asphalt, to where one of the bearded man hands us our luggage.

"I’ll carry that for you.", Niall says when I reach out to take my suitcase.

"Have a nice stay.", one of the men says, keeping his eyes behind the dark shades on me. I feel very, very uncomfortable. "And be careful.", he adds. That was a warning.

"Mr Horan.", the other man calls, approaching Niall with a black bag in his hands. His suit looks more expensive than all my clothes together. "Take these with you, it’s safer." He reaches into his pockets and hands Niall the ticket envelope. "This bag contains everything your manager asked for. For your medication, Mr Styles can help you. Goodbye."

"Come on, I’ll show you the way.", Harry then says, in a much too friendly tone. He only carries a small suitcase, guess he didn’t stay in London for too long. Niall walks behind me, I keep turning around to check if he’s still there.

We walk over the landing strip. There’s just green hills around. It’s pretty warm. I roll up the sleeves of the cardigan Niall must have given me back in London. I wonder on how many parts of the story that began in Ted’s office and ended here I forgot.

"The ocean is right behind the hills.", Harry explains, pointing into said direction. "I got a little private beach, so if you ever wanna come over, have a barbecue or simply enjoy the tide, you’re invited. I got a swimming pool as well, in both of my houses."

"Thanks, Harry.", Niall mumbles. A weird part of me is worried he’s sad he can’t afford a quarter of all the shit Harry seems to own. Two houses in L.A, and Satan knows where else he got himself a big ass villa. Another voice in my head reminds me that if he wasn’t an insane drug addict, Niall would still be as rich. So it’s his fault. But I really don’t mind. Why would I? In fact, Harry’s pissing me off. The way he talks, trying so hard not to show that he wishes he wouldn’t be talking to us at all, insults me. His gestures and how he hasn’t properly looked me in the eyes in all these hours make me angry, too.

He doesn’t have a clue about what was going on in London. He didn’t read the newspapers, luckily. He seems to believe I was just one of Niall’s girlfriends. A current distraction from his obvious problems. He treats me like I’m dumb. And whilst it turns me on to be ordered about by Niall, at least in terms of sex, I want to punch Harry in the throat for looking down on me with an almost sorry smirk, as if he pitied really me.

"I’ll call you a taxi.", Harry suggests as we reach a staircase, built right in the hills. "Or do you want my chauffeur to take you to your place?"

"That would be a better idea.", Niall says and nods.

Where are we going? Afer this weird flight on a private jet, I can’t imagine we’re staying at a holiday home, let alone a hotel. Maybe Niall owns a house here, too. Maybe he bought one a while ago. I look at him as if he could read the questions in my worried face, but he just winks and nods at me, too, mouthing “It’s okay” again. He’s trying so hard to keep me calm, I don’t even know why. Except for my bafflement and aversion for Harry, I think I’m alright.

I can hear seagulls in the distance. I haven’t seen the ocean in so long.

Harry leads us into some kind of garden, and then we reach a big, white house. This must be his. The broad windows make the walls look paned and I can see the swimming pool on the terracotta deck. The sight’s still blocked by hills, but I can hear the sound of waves breaking. The urge to run down to the beach and just jump into the water emerges in me. A childish need and wish I’ve had for a while, because it’s so human, so natural, and one of the most simple kinds of fun.

"Niall, I want to go to the beach.", I say, instantly ashamed of how stupid this must have sounded.

"Baby, we’ll go to the beach.", he replies in a patronizing tone and winks at me. "Later, okay? I promise I’ll take you to the beach."

Harry chuckles, it seems to amuse him how Niall talks to me. I give him a withering look and his stupid grin dies. He reminds me of Niall though, at least the Niall I thought I got to know when we only just met. When he called me and introduced me to his fucked up fantasies which we had made our fucked up reality by now.

"Oh don’t look at me like that, pretty one.", Harry says to me. Niall raises his brow and listens as he continues. "I find it absolutely endearing to watch the two of you. I start to believe you’re meant to be. I’ve got an idea. Niall, how about we celebrate your move at my place. I’ve got a pretty little friend over, too. And I got…" He lowers his voice. "Your medication." He laughs and opens the first button of his beige shirt. "Weren’t Kenneth and Rudy absolutely fantastic? So discreet, fuck. I know why I let them, you know, get their hands dirty for me. They know how to wash them properly. You should check the bag soon. I bet they did their very best. I knew I could help when Todd, no, wait, Ted called me."

Once again, I feel like the man in front of me is talking in a foreign language. I turn to Niall, whose face is pale and covered in sweat, as if he’s febrile. But he nods and smiles, a forced, fake lie of a smile, but Harry believes it.

"So, what do you say?", Harry asks. "Do you think it’s safe to invite her to one of our legendary two men parties?"

Niall chuckles and this time, it’s real. They’re sharing a memory I don’t know about, but a “legendary two men party” between obvious drug addicts with faces like paintings and bodies like gods sounds pretty much like an orgy on coke. And I don’t know if I’m up for that.

"Morgan, do you want to visit Harry’s house before we head to our place?", Niall asks me.

"I’m not sure.", I say.

"Oh, come on!", Harry laughs, reaching out to pat my shoulder. Niall watches him like a hawk. "Let go of the past’s stress, you’re in L.A. That’s a whole new world, pretty girl!"

If he’d only stop calling me that. I know it provokes Niall and it makes me feel so fucking dumb.

"Tell her, Niall.", Harry bids. "I got good stuff by the way. You’ll love it."

"Harry, I-"

“Harry, I,-“, he mocks Niall. I’m raging on the inside. “Don’t be a fucking pussy. It’s safe. Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody will ever know. I’d only get into trouble, too. I mean, drugs and tax dodging is not as bad as what you guys are getting away with, but you get me. I’m not gonna talk. And Fefe’s too fucking dumb anyway. So come on, Ni, don’t tell me you don’t want to have a drink at least.”

Even though it’s obvious Niall doesn’t like Harry, I can tell he really wants to accept his offer. And what Harry just said made me nosy. What does he mean, not as bad as what you guys are getting away with? Did Niall do anything else besides beating Nathan up and taking drugs? Did I do anything else but fall for him despite knowing it was a mistake? No. Harry’s probably just trying to be dramatic.

"Gin tonic.", Harry says. "Bloody Mary. Coke. Good coke. And good god, I got dope, too. And I’m sure Morgan and Fefe will get along." He winks at me and this is the first time his eyes meet mine. He looks away again, pressing his lips together as if he saw something there that frightened him and I wonder why all the men I encountered in the past twenty-four hours looked at me like I was a fucking ghost.

"Are you in?", Harry mocks one of my favourite Incubus songs. "Are you iiiin?"

"We’re in.", I say to hush him. "We’re in, yes. Come on Niall, I want to know what Harry’s talking about. And I know you need your medication.”

Niall’s blue eyes widen, he shakes his head. He doesn’t understand why I suddenly challenge him like this, triggering his addiction, giving him my literal permission to do drugs. I don’t really understand either, but I’m driven by a dark urge and the will to find out what the fuck is going on and I feel like Harry knows more than I do, for whatever reason. Also I need to find out what’s in the bag and envelope. Also, I can’t deny I’d sure as hell like a gin tonic. Everything’s different now anyway. Like Harry said, L.A is a whole new world. And there’s a old, bad part of me that feels home here. My anger, confusion and selfish needs add up to a desire I knew I always kept locked up in my broken soul.

When I was sixteen, I read Nabokov’s Lolita. I knew it wasn’t a lovestory, but it awoke something in my already wounded heart. I stole the most recent movie adaption from my school’s library and watched it under my blanket, enrapt by how terribly destructive that little girl was. It was the story of a lipstick stained catastrophe, a true crime. Now that I stand in the deep purple light of the setting sun, I remember a certain line. I put on a fake smile, put my arm around Niall’s shoulder, who still looks at me both surprised and, which makes me want to throw up but kiss him at the same time, truly in love, and quote the perverted criminal the world sympathized with. I always found it funny how easy it was to love the bad guys.

"I long for some terrific disaster!", I warble, because somehow, I suddenly really do. As if things weren’t bad enough already. "Earthquake! Specatcular explosion!"

I hear Harry laugh as I press my lips on Niall’s cheeks. He turns his head to kiss my mouth instead.

"Let’s eliminate ourselves along with everybody else for miles around."

"I know that from somewhere.", Harry remarks as he leads us to the back door of his villa.

"Lolita.", I tell him, surprised by how friendly I suddenly am to him now that I’ve got a plan.

"Oh, of course.", he says, winks at Niall and opens the gate to tonight’s Hollywood cathedral of drinks and drugs, distress and sex.

______________________

______________________

______________________

His house is the polished palace of a 21st century prince, chrome, glass, white walls and the most useless furnishing, a low key demonstration of how rich he is.

He showed them around, only spared two, three rooms and then, he took them to the bar in his lavish living room, where a tall, skinny girl with light blonde hair was waiting. She was beautiful, a model with no doubt and a whole other kind of pretty than Morgan, but seeing her only made Niall grip Morgan’s hand tighter. Fefe served drinks and Niall wondered if she was Harry’s girlfriend, maid, fuckmeat only or all at once.

"Nice to meet you.", she said and winked at him, before she wrapped her smooth, tanned arms around Morgan’s neck. Morgan granted her the hug, even though he could tell she was disgusted. He didn’t understand. He had a dreadful suspicion as to why she seemed so eager to have this four people party at Harry’s place all of sudden, but he didn’t want to believe it. He’d keep an eye out for her though, as usual. It was his duty as a good man, or at least as a broken man that tries his best to be good with snow in his nostrils, gin in his veins and secrets that he wouldn’t take to the confessional in a thousand years. As good as a godless man can be.

"Do we go straight to drinking or what?", Harry said after the little tour was done and he sank into the white leather of his sofa. The windows looked out to the ocean and Morgan instantly walked towards them, putting her hands on the glass as if she could touch the sea in the distance. She looked like a little child and Niall felt his stomache convulse with patronizing, yet true love. He stepped behind her and kissed her shoulder, whispering: "I’ll take you there tomorrow, okay? We’ll swim and tan and you can read to me if you like. I got tons of books where we’ll stay."

"Where are we going to stay?", she asked, not taking her wide eyes off the night sky above the water. It was clear, dark blue, and spiked with diamond like stars.

"You’ll see then.", he mumbled, kissing her temple.

"Come over!", Harry yelled in the background. "Sit down with me. Don’t get distracted. Look what Fefe brought us."

Morgan and Niall turned around to watch Fefe sitting down on Harry’s lap. He invites them to sit with him with a big gesture. “Take a seat.”

He kissed Fefe and Niall knew where this was going. It’s not like he didn’t remember these nights back in the early 2010’s. No paps for once, luckily, but girls, in skimpy dresses, easy girls, loud girls, even louder when they fucked them, quiet when they were done. Lines, shots, empty bottles. Deafening music, bloody knuckles, girls, girls, girls and for Harry even boys sometimes.

The light in Harry’s large living room was violet, almost pink. He pointed at the shots and drinks Fefe had served for the start and winked at Niall, asking him to pick what to begin with. Niall and Morgan sat down in front of Harry, just the small glass table between the two couches. He reached out, handed Morgan the first drink and took one for himself. Harry nodded, pleased with his friend’s decision and picked up the drinks for him and Fefe, too.

"Here’s to the past.", he said, raising the ice cold glass. "That we bury as we swallow this hopefully flawlessly mixed gin tonic." He was still the same stupid idiot he’d been back when he had to pretend he wasn’t as much into drinking as he was into men’s asses, too.

Niall watched Morgan gulp down the clear liquid, unable to keep his mind as clean. He knew he’d fuck her tonight, he had to, and he wished for it all to be over already, for his brain to be so numb with whatever drugs Harry’s making him do, he didn’t care, if Morgan was in it, he was in it. She had to stay bis his side, though. He knew he always made her feel like she depended on him, needed him, but little did she know he needed her even more. And he knew it wasn’t right, but he couldn’t change what he felt for her, he gave up on trying to fight it.

"Cheers.", Harry said before he emptied his glass, too.

Niall inhaled and poured it all into his mouth. The sweet burn made him smile.

"Good?", Fefe asked.

"Fantastic.", Morgan answered before he could. "Another one for me if you please, Fefe."

The blonde girl got up right away. Harry slapped her ass as she walked off, chuckling darkly.

"She’s hot, isn’t she?", he asked. Once again Morgan decided to reply.

"Oh yes, she is."

How much more did she want to confuse him? Was that her revenge for talking about all these things she wasn’t ready to find out about yet? Did she wanted to play him like she thought he was playing her?

"Morgan, what’s up with you?", he whispered.

"I just want to have a good time after whatever happened back in London.", she replied, kissing him with such passion he didn’t bother to ask on for the now. "I wanna have fun."

"Believe me, you’ll have fun.", Harry said. Niall always hated how raspy his voice got when he was aroused. A part of him had always hated Harry anyway. He asked himself why he agreed on visiting him in first line, then he remembered he needed his support and Ted basically forced him into a fatal relationship with him by giving away his responsibility and putting it in Harry’s beringed hands.

Niall hoped she didn’t hear how Harry whispered to him: “See mate I know you’re not gonna let me fuck her, but let me watch at least.”

"I’m not drunk enough for this.", Niall snorted.

"You will be."

Fefe served the next round and so it began.

Countless shots and gins, moscow mules and a nice line of the literally best coke he’s had in his whole damn life, including some pills Harry got Morgan to swallow, too, Fefe takes off her top and Morgan cheers. He’s never seen her like that, but he likes it, at least for tonight. They’re damned anyway.

"You should tell her about how we used to party.", Harry suggests, running his fingers through his thick hair. "I bet she wants to know."

"Oh, I bet she doesn’t.", Niall chuckles.

"I do! You never tell me anything.", Morgan pouts, pinching Niall’s arm.

"Ouch!"

"Tell me! Tell me!", she begs. Is she that drunk? Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide. "I’m begging you, Daddy."

Harry almost chokes on his drink, he coughs and spits it on Niall’s shirt. “Did she just-?”, he chuckles. “Niall, you fucking pervert. I should have known. What has my lovely ray of irish sunlight become?”

"What has the baker boy from Cheshire become?", Niall responses.

"Well, I’m still working with powder.", Harry jokes and pulls another bag of coke out his pockets.

"Harry, where again is the toilet?", Morgan asks. "I need to pee."

"Fefe can guide you.", Harry suggests.

"No, I wanna go on my own."

________________________

________________________

________________________

I hope I’m doing well. I’m drunk and the pills Harry gave me had had a certain effect on me, too, but I only swallowed half of the amount he gave me, shoving the rest between the sofa’s cushions. I wasn’t gonna get too wasted to stick to my plan. I remember where Niall put the bag and the envelope, and before my pretentious bathroom visit, I’ll find that office and see what he’s hiding from me. I act proper nuts, but it’s fun. A part of me is worried about Niall, he’s snorted so much and he keeps doing shots, but his body is used to it. I don’t know why I’m so fucking twisted and evil, I guess I’ve always been and it just shows now that I feel that puzzled and betrayed. It scares me but I’m trying to defend myself before what’s left of my conscience.

"Up the stairs, on the right.", Harry describes, winking at me. I know he wants to fuck me, but I’m not gonna let him. I want Niall only, and I want him tonight, and I know that he wants me too. And if it helps, I will let him fuck me in front of Harry, whatever he wants, I don’t give a fuck anymore. As long as I get what I want, too.

"Thanks.", I say, staggering through the living room. I took off my cardigan, I’m wearing my plain black skater dress only. My underwear’s soaked in sweat, it’s way too warm in Harry’s villa. I climb the stairs, knowing that Niall watches me.

"Be careful, babe.", he yells. "D’ya want me to come with you?"

"You stay where you are, Horan.", Harry commands.

"Okay, okay.", Niall laughs.

I reach the upper floor and stop at the stair’s edge, looking around trying to recall where the office is. There’s so many fucking doors but I feel like the one I’m searching for is the third one on the left. I tiptoe, even though I know they can’t hear me anyway. And they don’t suspect me to do what I’m doing, right? At least I hope they don’t. I just want to know what’s going on.

I reach the door and open it slowly, entering the air conditioned room. It looks out to the ocean as well, but I’m not gonna get distracted now. Even though it’s pretty hard to stay focused with so much alcohol running through my weak body, I spot our luggage right away, the envelope on top of my suitcase. I turn around and look over my shoulder to check if anyone’s behind me. Who knows if there aren’t any other girls in this house. Or boys.

Fefe’s by far the most gorgeous woman I have ever met. She’s probably younger than me and a true cliché, it’s almost saddening, but that’s why I like her. Her body is amazing, she’s perfectly toned, so slim and flawless it almost makes me sick. I know Niall could have chosen to be a with a girl like her and I see how she looks at him. And it hurts because after all, I’m just a helpless little girl if it comes to Niall and I want him to desire my body, which is hard to imagine when I feel my stomach roll whenever I lean forward to grab another drink, but then I remember that I’m good at telling if people are being honest with me and when he told me he loved me, wanted me, and whenever he complimented me, Niall didn’t lie. And as much as I hoped to catch him off guard, he didn’t glare at her for too long only once.

The envelope issue was another chapter of this insane book we were writing on whenever we touched.

I pick it up and carefully open it. Luckily, it’s not glued. It’s a big envelope, full of documents. I take them out all at once and quickly scan them. My fingers are shaking. I don’t know much about papers like these, Lucy used to help me with taxes and all that stupid adult crap. But I can tell that these are papers with fake identities for me and Niall. A passport, like tickets, but no official ones. Like I thought before, why would we need proper tickets for a private jet anyway? There’s a picture of me on the first page. An old one. I don’t quite remember when it was taken. And I don’t know how the fuck Niall, or Ted, or whoever printed these documents, found it.

Beneath my picture, it says Marla Singer.

"What the fuck…", I mumble. I can’t fucking believe that the person who made this was too fucking stupid to come up with something better than the fucking name of a fictional character. Marla Singer. Could any female secondary character be more fucked up than Marla fucking Singer from Fight Club? But now that I’m thinking about it, it pretty much fits. I can’t keep from smiling and shaking my head. I don’t understand why Niall puts so much effort in our "trip". Why do we need fake identities? What the fuck did he do that was so bad it requires us to leave the country and take up somebody elses identity? My stomach hurts so bad I’m afraid I’ll throw up. What the fuck is going on?

I skim to the next paper to see what name they chose for Niall, expecting something like Tyler Durden, but the documents just say Brent Mitchell, the most boring name I’ve ever heard in my whole life, and Niall doesn’t look like a Brent at all.

The next page is empty except for an adress that sounds way too familar. It’s a street in Camden, which is probably the reason I feel like I’ve been there, but I can’t recall. I reach for my mobile to take a picture of that adress, but I have no pockets. It’s either in the cardigan’s or in my suitcase.

"Fuck.", I cuss. I decide to go through the other pages, just to see what else is there to find, but honestly, except for scaring me and making me wonder why we need new names and identities to stay in L.A, it didn’t help at all. And why the fuck is there a copied issue of The Sun in it, the one I looked up on the internet, the ones without anything about Niall and me in it?

I don’t fucking get it. I stumble forward to grab the black bag, but then I hear it. Footsteps. Coming closer, closer. I shove the documents back into the envelope, but it’s too late. The door swings open, pink lights floods the office. But it’s not who I expected.

"Tss, tss, look who we got here. You didn’t want to go to the toilet at all, did you?", Harry asks. He looks a fucking mess, almost ugly now. His face is covered in sweat, his beige shirt unbuttoned. His tattooed body looks like he hasn’t eaten properly in weeks.

"I’m sorry.", I mumble, wondering if he knows about the envelope. For some reason, I’m sure he does.

"Have we been playing spy?", he chuckles, taking the papers from my hand to put them back where I found them. "You’re really a bad girl, it’s like Ted told me."

"What?", I ask.

"It’s alright. I understand that you’re confused, I really do." He looks at me and even now, through the thick layers of emotionlessness the drugs have put on his pupils, I can see the same mistrust in his green eyes. He takes my hand without a warning and I flinch. He’s scaring me. "Shh, it’s all good. No need to play afraid, pretty one, I don’t believe you. Come downstairs again, your man’s waiting for you. Didn’t you say you want to have fun?"

"Yes.", I nod, smiling at him to downplay how fucking caught I feel.

"Then come on, stop trying to look for things you won’t find, you’re not a child anymore. Let’s go and have some adult fun, shall we?", he grumbles. I think I get why girls used to fancy him. There’s something about him for sure. But he’s nothing compared to Niall, nothing. I catch myself yearning for him, so I don’t fight Harry and follow him.

I turn around to look at the black bag, hoping to find another oppurtunity to check what’s inside and then Harry asks me to close the door.

"Good.", he praises me, pulling me back to the stairs. "We’ll put on some music, we’ll be fine. You were hoping to solve a little riddle, right? I know."

I swallow hard, not trying to freak out as he leans forward and whispers into my ear. “I know yours and Niall’s.”

What is he talking about? Nathan? Fuck. What if Nathan died or something? What if Ted really killed himself and makes it look like it’s Niall’s and my fault? Fuck. I need to get out of here and get back to London. At least that’s what one voice yells inside of me. The other voice just asks for another drink and the remaining pills.

"Wanna know another secret?", Harry asks and I nod slowly, hoping that, drunk as he is, he’ll drop something that’ll might take me on, but he just mumbles: "I’d love to fuck you, Morgan."

He winks at me as if these words would do anything to me but disgust me, then, he pulls me down the stairs. “We’re back! I found her! And Niall, I’ve got to confess, she wasn’t even using the bathroom.”

Niall stands up from the couch, his face a mask of absolute self loss in the neon like light. “What?”

"She’s been going through the secret papers!", Harry warbles, pushing my back to make me stumble towards Niall. Why is he ratting me out like that? I’m so fucking sick, but all I want is more of the sweet burn the vodka left in my throat. My head’s spinning already. "She’s been prying into the documents, Niall!"

The men are so fucking drunk. Fefe sits on the couch with her legs crossed, watching with a martini in her hands.

"Morgan, is that true?", Niall asks, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes.", I confess.

"Morgan, this is none of your business! It’s in an envelope for a reason!" He steps forward and grabs me by my shoulders, shaking me a little. He’s so fucking wasted and I’m getting scared again. "Do you think she found anything?", he asks Harry. "Do you think she knows?"

"I don’t think so.", Harry thankfully says. He’s right after all.

"Good. Morgan, I’m disappointed in you. So disappointed.", Niall mumbles, squeezing my jaw in his big hand. "Don’t ever do this again. It’s for your own good."

"But I don’t understand!", I whimper.

"That’s exactly the point, you stupid little thing!", Harry laughs.

"You’re not supposed to understand.", Niall says, shaking his head with the familar smirk on his face. "You’re not supposed to understand and you shouldn’t worry about it anymore. I’ve told you a million times, nothing matters but the two of us."

"Don’t be so fucking cheesy, Horan.", Harry snorts in the background. "She’s been a backstabbing bitch, I think she deserves a punishment."

Fefe giggles. “Come on boys, be mature.”, she says.

"Keep your mouth shut, bitch.", Harry snarls. I’m offended by how he talks to her. She closes her pink mouth and shrugs.

"What do you think Niall?", Harry asks, approaching me from behind. "Doesn’t she deserve to get her ass wrecked for being such a brat?"

This is too fucking much for me to cope with. I don’t know what to feel, don’t know what to believe. The worst thing is that a twisted part of me’s getting really turned on by what Harry says. The thought of Niall spanking me in front of Harry and Fefe is quite exciting. And once again I know that there’s just two options. Flee or drink and do it.

I choose the second option.

I shove Niall to the side and walk to the bar to drink straight from the bottle. Niall follows me, grabs my arm so hard I cry out and pulls me to the sofa. “Behave.”, he snarls. Harry chafes his hands at us. “Music!”, he calls out and walks to the stereo. “What do you want to hear? How about some Huey Lewis And The News?” He laughs so hard his voice cracks.

"That’s not funny, Harry.", Niall scolds him.

"A brilliant reference though.", Harry giggles. "Okay, I think I found something."

A second later, the drums of a very daunting song echo from the white walls.

"Puscifer, really?", Niall asks. He knows every damn band in the whole wide world it seems.

"Tell me there’s a sexier song.", Harry responds. "Than Rev 22:20 because you’re not going to find one."

"Satanic fucking bastard.", Niall snarls.

"Oh, you are a fine one to talk, Horan!", Harry laughs. "This is a mixtape from a a decade ago, mostly haunting, electric stuff, I don’t know. I like it."

So do I.

Harry walks over to the couch and pulls Fefe on his lap. She immediately starts kissing him as if he didn’t insult her before and he slaps her ass so hard it drowns the beat. She’s sitting there straddling him, in her bra and hotpants, like every man’s fantasy, but Niall’s got his eyes on me only. He pushes me down and cups my face, looking at me with an unexplicable expression in his face, before he roughly presses his mouth on mine, parting my lips with his tongue.

"I thought of something else than that, but I’m okay with this, too.", Harry says between two of Fefe’s kisses. "How about you guys switch to that sofa, huh? Come sit next to me Niall, like in the old times."

I feel the vodka kicking in now. I’m so fucking warm, I want to take off my dress, but not for the temperature’s sake only. I bite Niall’s lower lip and he responds by pulling my hair.

"I’m so fucking thirsty.", I say and tilt back.

"I can tell.", Niall mumbles. I reach out for whatever glass is closest and empty it at once. The music is too loud, it hurts my brain, but that’s melting anyway.

"She goes off like a gun, Niall.", Harry says. Is this supposed to be a compliment? Maybe, because I smile and reply: "Thank you, Harry."

"You wanna feel even better, Morgan?", he then asks me.

"Harry, don’t.", Niall warns him, but he doesn’t sound much convincing. "She’s never done that before and I really don’t want her to."

"It’s my body after all.", I hear myself say. What the fuck am I doing? This is like a panic attack. I’m so small inside my vessel. But this time, it feels good. It feels amazing.

"See! It’s her body.", Harry mocks me as he takes a little bag out of his shirt’s chest pocket and throws it on the table. "You’re not gonna find better coke in California, ask Niall, he tried it. And it’s all for free! Snort while you still can."

I don’t hestitate. The needed appliances are on the table.

"Morgan, babe, babygirl, don’t. Do me the favour, don’t.", Niall begs, but I don’t give a fuck. I prepare a line like I saw it in movies, bend over and snort it.

Three minutes later, I’m on an incomparable high. I’ve never felt anything compared to this. I’m euphoric, like they told us in biology class. The voices inside of me are screaming so loud I can barely hear the next song. They want me to care but I don’t.

I drown the doubts with another shot and then turn my head to Fefe. I’ve got an idea.

"Come on, Niall.", I say, stand up and pull my boyfriend to the other sofa, like Harry wants it.

"Perfect.", he praises us. I make Niall sit down right next to Harry. He looks confused, I’m almost sorry, but I know he secretly likes it. He’s too fucking wasted to care anyway. A poor little boy. So fucking lost. He’s not half as bad as he thinks he is.

I bend over and whisper into Fefe’s ear. She agrees an giggles. We carelessly shove the glasses off the table, some break, liquor soaks the rug and Fefe stumbles to the bar to fetch salt, limes and tequila. Harry applauds when he realises what we just ruined his furniture for.

Niall runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Is this too much for you?", I ask him in a playful tone.

"Fuck, yes.", he says. He’s surprised by how determined I am and so am I. "Way too much, babe."

"You got yourself the first prize, mate.", Harry grumbles, fist bumping Niall like a school boy. They sit there with their legs spread, waiting, and I feel like a fucking hooker. And it’s more empowering than I ever thought it would be.

Fefe comes back and hands me the tequila, then she takes off her hotpants.

"Take off your dress.", she says to me. I hestitate for a second. No matter how wasted I am, I’m still a little conscious. "Don’t be scared, take off your dress.", she repeats.

"Take off that dress!", Harry shouts. "Take! Off! That! Dress!"

"Mate, calm down.", Niall reproaches him. "He’s right though, babe.", he adds in a strict, casual tone. "Take off your dress. I want to see you."

I pull the soft jersey over my head. I’m in my sweat soaked underwear, a pastel pink bra and a plain white thong that is surely see through by now. Harry whistles and Niall pinches my butt cheek, inhaling sharply through his teeth. “Fuck.”, he mumbles.

I stick my ass out on purpose as I help Fefe laying down on the table, then climb on top of her and grab the salt.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.", Harry keeps mumbling. Niall’s just sitting there, watching me. I pour salt on Fefe’s cleavage. Harry prepares the shots and hands me one. Fefe takes a lime wedge between her lush lips and winks at me, arching her back under me. I’ve never really considered sex with a girl, but right now, all I can think of his how badly I’d like to take off her bra and panties, too. I bet her face looks even prettier when she cums.

"Here we go.", Harry chuckles.

"Will ya keep yer fuckin mouth shut, just enjoy tis fer fuck’s sake!", Niall hisses in his thickest accent. I feel a twitch between my legs and lower my center on Fefe’s thigh, yearning for a little bit of friction.

I lean forward and lick the salt off her soft skin, dragging my tongue up from between her breasts and she giggles like a little girl. I gulp down the shot, sigh especially loud and eat the lime wedge from her mouth. Our lips touch and I shiver. I feel both Harry’s and Niall’s eyes on me. They’re waiting. I swallow the sour fruit but keep my mouth on Fefe’s. She quietly moans. She’s turned on and so am I. I grind on her thigh and shove my tongue into her mouth. She parts her lips to make the men, who are now nothing more but horny frat boys on their first ever college party, watch how our tongues collide.

"Hold on.", Fefe whimpers. "Help me take this off." She sits up and I reach behind her back to open my bra. Without a further warning, she takes mine off, too. As soon as they’re on the floor, she grabs my face and kisses me again, harder this time. I can’t quite explain why, but I feel beautiful making out with her. It’s a rush I’ve never known before. She puts her soft hands on my breasts and softly pinches my nipples. I moan and press my wet center against her thigh, moving my hips back and forth.

"Is this the first time you did coke?", she asks me and I nod. "You’re so fucking cute, Morgan. I don’t get what’s going on here, it’s a bit scary but, wow, wow Morgan, you’re just wonderful." She’s drunk as hell and I’d feel sorry for her if I could. She could be eighteen.

"Do you want me to help you?", she then asks. "I can feel how wet you are, darling."

Harry inhales loudly and I turn around to look at Niall, who licks his lips and takes a shot. I see this as an invitation and pour salt on and around Fefe’s nipple. She laughs as I lick it off, raising her leg a little, which is more than just convenient for me.

"Okay, enough.", Nialls groans. "Babe, come to me. Come. Sit on my lap, won’t ya?"

I tug on Fefe’s lip as I tilt back. As much as I want to keep on fooling around, I need Niall now. I get up and turn around to sit on his lap. He puts his hands on my lower back, letting them wander down to my ass. He gives me butt cheeks a tight squeeze and slaps them before I kiss him, grinding on what me making out with Fefe caused beneath the fabric of his jeans.

"God, you should make home porn.", Harry suggest, lighting a joint and blowing the smoke right into our direction. "It’s so fucking hot to watch you. Why don’t you take her on the table, Niall?"

"Hhmhm.", Niall groans. Before I even realise he’s going to do what Harry told him, he stands up and puts me down on the table. Fefe’s standing in front of it, looking at us, looking at Harry, then looking at us again.

"Come here.", Harry tells her and promptly unzips his pants. "Don’t block my view, though, just suck me off for now, okay?"

"But Harry-"

"Shut up, get on your knees and suck it.", he hushes her and she obeys.

It’s like I’m watching myself from the other side of the room as Niall pulls down my panties and plants sloppy kisses all over my body. Even now he’s being tender, but I just want him to fuck me. My dizzy, drunk brain seems to be gone completely. I’m just a shell and a shattered, racing heart, alcohol and greed. I need Niall in me to feel anything else besides the fucking jag.

I can hear Fefe gagging and it turns me on. I buck my hips and let out a quiet moan.

"You’re so fucking naughty, Morgan. You’re so fucking disturbed, I love it. I love you.", Niall mumbles, flicking my nipple with the tip of his tongue.

"Shut up and fuck me.", I hear myself say.

Niall shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re never gonna say it, babe, right? Are you ever gonna tell me? Are you ever going to tell me that you love me, too?” Is he getting all emotional just now?

"Niall, please.", I moan. "Please, I need you to fuck me."

"I’ll fuck you, don’t worry.", he grumbles.

"Just start already, my god, Horan, you’re acting like a sentimental bitch.", Harry complains, stroking Fefe’s head as she keeps bobbing it. "Just fuck her, she’s begging for it."

Niall nods. He seems so helpless all of sudden. Almost desperate. I reach out to wrap my arms around him and he finally unzips his pants.

"It’s okay, Ni, just fuck me. You’re not like that when it’s just the two of you, don’t be shy.", I whisper.

"It’s not because of Harry.", Niall replies. "It’s because of you. All of that. Just because of you."

"Niall, shut your fucking mouth and fuck that slut before I do it!", Harry interrupts him.

"You shut yours about her before I make you.", he growls, but grips my thighs and puts my legs around his waist to forcefully enter me.

I cry out his name and he smiles, even though I can tell it’s not real. He starts thrusting into me, sloppily, yet hard. It feels good. I know I’m not gonna need any extra knick knack to cum this time.

"That’s what I’m talking about!", Harry laughs.

"Do you like that?", Niall asks as if he didn’t know. He needs me to encourage him. Maybe his high ceases. The air’s thick, the scent of dope makes me tired, but I need Niall to go a little harder. His sweaty skin’s smacking against mine and he growls, staring down at me with big, crazy eyes.

"Fuck yes, Ni, I-", I moan louder than I’d have to.

"This is so fucking insane.", Harry mumbles, letting out a moan, too. I’m a little sorry for Fefe, but all I feel now is Niall thrusting into me so hard I know I’m gonna be sore. "Slap her, Niall."

Niall’s too focused on fucking me to listen to Harry, so he repeats: “Slap her.” And then, Niall just does it. I don’t fucking care anymore. I love how rough he is.

"Good.", Harry praises him.

I moan again and Niall smiles at me. “You’re out of your fucking mind Morgan. You shouldn’t have done drugs. They’re bad for you.”

"Just like you.", I sigh.

"Just like me.", he repeats. "And just like you for me."

"Shit, this is gross. You really love each other, don’t you?", Harry chuckles. "Finish your little whore before I throw up."

Niall winks at me, mouthing “He’s jealous”, yet listens to Harry.

"Whose pussy is this, Morgan?", he asks to tease both him and me. "Tell me, who owns you?"

"You do.", I moan. And then, the violet lights turn black and I lose my last bit of self control in the rush of my orgasm. I feel Niall’s cum on my lower stomach, I hear Harry moaning, Fefe coughing, I hear more glasses break, hear myself calling Niall’s name. I feel his warm body on mine, his lips caressing my neck. "Good girl, good girl.", he repeats over and over again.

But I’m not good. Not in the slightest.

_________________________

_________________________

_________________________

He carries her to the guest room. The sun’s about to rise again. He’s having a hard time walking straight. It was too much, but he forbids himself to regret anything. This is not the time for regrets. He puts her to bed, admiring her naked body before he covers her with a thin blanket, simply because he knows she can’t sleep without one.

He lays down next to her and watches her chest raise until he falls asleep to the sound of seagulls and waves breaking in front of the window.

Hell’s to be found in the middle of paradise with her. And hell can feel like paradise with a kiss from her lying lips.


	16. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're a fire, not an ocean.

Never in my seldomly optimistic dreams did I dare to picture my impure self in a place so entirely perfect, so hauntingly beautiful that it hurt. I felt guilty for being the shadow in the holy glow of the land of movie screen gods and sequin dress vixens. Still numb and slightly erratic from last night’s escapades, the shore below the hills at the roadside, crystal blue under the deep pink afternoon sky, seems rather like an oneiric vision to me than the unwanted reality of running away with a man that not only stole my soul, but also my name.

He’s got his fingers wrapped around my wrist, a subtle, yet oppressive display of our disastrous affiliation, showing me where I belong. I was too drunk on chemicals to worry for the much too natural pain in his eyes when he ravished me at my will last night, but I remember, and now I know that I hurt him. Not only did I trick him into turning the sacred union of our bodies into a perverted fuckshow for a man neither of us truly trusted, no, I also let myself get caught giving in to my doubts and disobeying and betraying the only person that ever really mattered to me. I put my will above his will, my needs first, my fear was the fuel in my veins. And that is not what love’s about. And I know I never told him and I probably never will, but despite it all, there is no denying that I do love him, with all the shards of my broken heart and my confused, yet determined brain, I do love him, but I cannot wholly sacrifice myself to him, for I am too scared and too puzzled and too crazy, even for a man as insane as him. So, when it’s just like that, just that natch, to put myself first, why does it hurt me so much to know that I’ve decieved him? And that he knows, yet sits next to me, holding me, taking me to a place he calls “our new home”, still loving me, and probably even more than before, since he’s been trying to demonstrate his power over me so desperately on that table but ended up needily making love to me, all that only makes it worse.

"That’s not how you imagined L.A, am I right, baby?", he asks me to break the uncomfortable silence in the back of Harry’s chaffeur’s car.

"No.", I answer, not taking my eyes off the beach flying by before the window. "I thought it was just Hollywood and villas and huge malls to be honest. Never thought about it much, though."

"Well, that, too, but not only. There’s always two sides to everything. Maybe three, maybe four.", he says, gripping me tighter. Is this supposed to be a hint, a stupid metaphor? Why do I question everything he says? I thought I had finally accepted my fate, the one that I chose: Being with him, against all odds. Living with those burdens for the sake of my addiction to this goddamn addict.

"This is now our own little kingdom, baby, where we can be safe. Just the two of us.", he whispers.

Safe from what? I want to ask him, need to ask him, but the words just won’t pass my lips.

We’ve been driving for an hour and we’re far from Central Los Angeles. There’s not many buildings around, no skyscrapers, no villas. Just hills and the beach and the ocean and a few bungalows. I hope we’ll arrive soon. Even though I’ve slept long, I’m still exhausted. I wanna lay down in a bed that doesn’t smell like Harry’s heavy perfume, even though I doubt a tight sleep’s possible, now that the chemicals don’t muffle the voices in my head anymor. I forgot how peaceful sleeping on alcohol was. I puked some of it out when I woke up to use the toilet and I think that definetely advanced my sobering. I don’t really remember, I just know that Niall had followed me into the bathroom, held my hair and washed my mouth afterwards, then carried me back to bed and sung until I fell asleep again. I didn’t dream, I was in peace.

I woke up and it was over.

Harry wanted us to stay, but Niall declined his offer. He’s mad at Harry and I know why. I couldn’t look Fefe in the eyes as Harry and Niall went to get our luggage before we left. She was so pretty, even after that night she carried a flawless smile on her face, as if she forgot about everything already. As if she didn’t know more than me.

Last night, I liked kissing her, I enjoyed playing this fucked up sex game, way more than I should. But I felt sorry for her the whole time through. I could sense that she liked Harry, liked Harry a lot, but she sure knows that he’d never requite her affection in another way but shoving his cock so deep in her throat she’s having a hard time not puking up the meal she had eight hours before.

"So, are we gonna see each other again?", she asked in a sweet voice.

"I hope so.", I lied, looking at my hands.

"You and Niall", she began, "you make a wonderful couple. You seem like soulmates."

"Thank you.", I mumbled.

Soulmates. Fucking eclipsed excuses for what souls are supposed to be, connected by destructive drives. Soulmates, definetely. Fefe was serious about it.

"My grandmother was a psychic.", she then said. That was when she had my attention. I looked up, into her eyes and she smiled at me. "My mother and I believe we inherited some of her powers."

As much as I didn’t believe in god, the other side of the medal had always fascinated me. Anything related to magic, occultism. There was just something about all these bad, scary things that strongly attracted me.

"So?", I asked, feeling my stomach turn as the footsteps from the upper floor got closer to the stairs.

"I feel like the bond between you and him is very special.", she said.

"Every horoscope in a cheap teen girl’s magazine could say that.", I laughed, feeling like an asshole for being so condescending when she spent most of her time with the epitome of contemptuous fucktard already, when actually, I really wanted to know what her palmist powers told her about Niall and me.

She shook her head an giggled quietly, then crossed the room and took my hand in hers, looking straight into my eyes and instantly erasing all my doubts that she might be lying from my mind.

"Maybe it’s jealousy, maybe I want to see it more than I really see it, but this man, he’d die for you.", she hissed, tapping on the back of my hand with her sharp nails. "He’d kill for you. And he’d let you kill him. I don’t know exactly what happened to you, but Niall is keeping something from you for your own good. When I look into your eyes, I see darkness, but ever since you met Niall, there’s a fire in the middle of what you thought was an eternal night, and he will burn you down, but that will set you free. He knows it all, he knows you better than you know yourself."

I wanted to tell her to stop because she was scaring me, I wanted her to let go of me, but I heard Niall and Harry coming closer and the voices in my head were quiet because they wanted her to finish, they wanted her to give them something to talk about.

"One man, three women. And…A suicide. Blood, a lot of blood. Panic. You have anxiety, right? And panic attacks. And several other mental illnesses? You’re in therapy. You used to go to therapy more often, but you feel better since you met Niall. Am I right?"

I nodded, watching her lips move as she quickly went on. “I see a white prison, the ocean. A crowded place, a lot of faces. A phone. A razorblade. And a knife. A gun. And a black bag. A serial killer. Why is it so loud in your head all of sudden?”

That was when Harry and Niall came in.

"We’re ready. Are you coming, babe?", Niall asked. "I got our stuff, we’re leaving."

I wante to thank Fefe, but her eyes were glued to the black bag. I just shook her hand and pulled mine back, whispering “Thanks, goodbye and see you soon”, to Harry, knowing it was a lie.

Before Niall and I got into the car, Fefe yelled: “Don’t forget, Morgan, the worst monster isn’t hiding under your bed, it’s in it. But you can still sleep tight in bloody sheets!”

"What the fuck are you talking about? Did you smoke my fucking pot?", I heard Harry say before Niall shoved me into the car and slammed the door.

And there I was, scared, confused but at least not lonely. Even a psychic’s granddaughter told me he loves me. And I love him, too. So fucking much it’s tearing me apart.

I give in and lay my head on his shoulder. He grumbles something that I cannot understand. He’s pleased. He kisses my forehead and whispers: “Someone’s still tired it seems.”

"Hmhm." I close my eyes and listen to the wheels humming on the warm asphalt.

"That’s a shame.", he sighs. "I wanted to go to the beach tonight. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask someone else to join me. I don’t want to go alone."

"I’ll come with you, idiot."

"What did I just hear?", he asks in a feigned shocked voice. "Well, now less than ever, you fucking brat. What a shame. I wanted to go skinny dipping." He laughs and kisses my forehead again. “‘f course I’m taking ya wit me, silly.", he adds. "T beach is ours only."

"Mr,- umm, Mitchell, we’ll be at our destination in five minutes.", the chauffeur interrupts us in the front of the car.

"Perfect.", Niall says in a casual tone, as if he didn’t feel caught. That was his fucking fake identity and if I hadn’t found out about it already last night, this would’ve been the first time I heard it. He was surely afraid of me asking him about it now, but I keep my mouth shut.

The car’s taking a sharp turn and we drive into a forest like area. No more houses around, no signs of civilization at all. Just trees and flowers and bushes and sandy hills.

"Ni, you’re not taking me camping, are you?", I ask to ease my own tension.

"No, babe, like I told you, I’m taking you to our new house."

"Well, I hope it’s not a bungalow."

He gives me a admonishing look. “It’s not.”

The sun’s setting behind the hills, flaming red tonight, when the chauffeur stops at what looks like a huge white box.

"We’re here.", he unnecessarily says. While he helps Niall carrying the luggage over the dry sand, to the box’s front door, I stand in the evening heat and admire the simplicity of this building. Paned walls, clean glass. This house looks minimalistic, yet beautiful, but somehow, unfinished. And empty. Even from the outside I can tell it’s cold in there. And I can’t see much furniture through the big windows either.

"Is this your house?", I ask Niall as he gets the black bag from the trunk and closes it.

"No, stupid. It’s ours.", he says and winks at me.

"Niall, come on. I mean, was this built for you?"

"Yeah. They never finished it though. It’s been empty since 2015 I think. Nobody even knows that it’s here, which is why it’s just perfect for the two of us, right? Our little hideaway. It’s like I knew I’d need it one day. It’s like we’re fate."

"Well, I don’t think fleeing from whatever awaits us in London is fate. That’s just bad fortune and the consequences to things I never wanted to happen.", I dryly respond. Niall gnashes his teeth and takes my hand again.

"Why didn’t you let them finish building it so you could move here? Why did you stay in London?"

"London was my home. I’ve been there for so long and I just felt like this was where I belong, like, my own hunting ground, the perfect place for me. Where people still knew me, but also gave me the chance to disappear in the stinky fucking rain in this hell of a town. And L.A, well, I don’t know. I never felt like this was the right place for me. Too bright, too warm, too vivid. Too positive. Drugs yes, but you don’t even need them here. Everyone’s just high on life. I never liked that."

He looks at the sky and I can’t keep myself from staring at his neck. His veins are so appealing. So thick. I can almost hear his blood rushing through the violet canals. I hear the echo of Fefe’s words in my head: “Blood, a lot of blood.” For some reason, the memory of another film I’ve watched under my blanket a long, long time ago, enters my mind. My favourite chapter in the Kill Bill movies has always been The Origin Of O-Ren. I admired how O-Ren’s young self coldheartedly avenged herself upon the men who took the ones she loved from her. A little girl of such strength. I always wished I’d been a little more like her.

And now? I find myself being The Bride instead. I’d hunt Niall only to forgive him in the end. Would he betray me though? He does, right now. But like Fefe said, and he said, and the voices in my head say: It’s for my own good. But I don’t know if I like that kind of good.

"Why couldn’t we stay in London then?", I ask.

"You know why, Morgan.", he says, but I don’t.

"Why did you leave home, Niall? If you don’t like it here anyway.", I go on.

"You’re here with me. And that’s what matters. Home’s where we’re together. And now stop making me say that cheesy fucking stuff and follow me. I gotta show you the house. Or at least the house like building that’ll be our little palace from now on."

He pays the chauffeur by the door. “Thanks.”, he mumbles, handing him more cash than needed. “You’ve never been here. You don’t know us. You don’t know about this place. You hear me?”

"Yes, Sir.", the chauffeur says and nobds. "Never been here, don’t know you, neither this place."

"That’s it. Have a good one, then. Drive safely."

I watch the chauffeur get in the car and drive off back into the forest. And I know I’ll never see him again.

"What was that?", I ask Niall. "Are we spies now? Or wait! Is this a witness protection thing? Is this why you got us fake ID’s?"

Niall, who was about to unlock the front door, stops and turns around. “You know.”

"Of course I know. What do you think I saw in the fucking envelope? A treasure map? Harry told you what he caught me doing."

"Yeah, he did, I remember." Niall runs his fingers through his hair. "Well, yes, we got new identities now, so? Morgan, it’s fun. Come on. It’s a game."

"No, it’s not a fucking game. The voices in my head are screaming at me, Niall. I don’t know what the fuck is going on!" I’m shouting, so loud it hurts me in my throat, but I can’t keep it in any longer. We’re standing in front of the house, on the empty, sandy driveway and the birds around us are singing at the top of their little lungs, I hear the ocean, really close and it’s warm, too warm.

"What do the voices say, Morgan?", Niall asks in a low voice. "What do they tell you? Do they tell you to do something?"

"What? No! Who are you, my therapist?" I hysterically laugh at him and watch his Adam’s apple bo as he swallows hard.

"Listen, Morgan, it’ll all make sense if you think about it.", he quietly says.

"Well, I think about it all the time and it doesn’t.", I respond.

"Then… Stop thinking about it." He rolls his eyes. He’s getting angry.

"I can’t!", I shout.

"Yes you can!", he shouts back, grabbing me by my shoulders, shaking me. "Just fucking stop asking me all these damn questions and stop spying upon me and the stuff I brought. Whatever you’ll find out won’t make you happy. And isn’t this what it’s about? Don’t you want to be happy, Morgan? Don’t you want to be free! Don’t I make you happy?"

His voice cracks, his hands are bruising me. “Y-yes.”, I mumble.

"Yes! I know! You make me happy, too! So let’s just be happy together! So very fucking happy!"

He puts on a smile and it’s the scariest thing I ever saw in my whole life. His eyes are still dark and angry, but his mouth’s a big, broad, white toothpaste smile. “Let’s fucking forget whatever happened in London, okay? We’re here together and it’s beautiful, look at the fucking sun man, it’s setting on us like a big fucking ball of fire and we’re fucking burning! Let’s just be fucking happy, okay? Smile for me, won’t you? Smile for me. I love you, Morgan, I love you so fucking much, but I need you to shut up. And for as long as you don’t understand, don’t try too hard to understand.”

"But-"

"No but." He finally let’s go of me and kisses me and I wish I had the strength to push him away, but I’m too terrified of his potential reaction. And even more scared of what he said. Yes, I want to be happy. And he makes me happy. That fucking psycho makes me happier than anything else in my life before.

"Now smile for me, like I said."

"I can’t.", I say.

"Yes." He puts his fingers on corners of my mouth and pulls them into a painful smile. "Beautiful." He softly slaps my cheek and then turns back around to open the door to the white box.

The building looks like a modern factory hall from the inside. The ground floor is just one big room, high outer walls, and a bathroom. The second floor’s more like a balcony or a tribune, accessable thanks to circular stairs of steel in the middle of the big ground floor room. There’s really not much furniture in here. Niall didn’t plan on coming here, this was spontaneous. Maybe Harry quickly put that white sofa in and some food in the fridge. There’s still big rolls of tarpaulin in the corners, buckets of white paint and a toolbox on the coffee table.

"I hope you don’t mind the fact it still smells like renovation in here.", Niall says with a shrug as he carries the luggage to the staircase. "We have electricity. I’ll buy you a new laptop."

"But I already have one."

"Yeah, but you left that in London."

Just now it hits me that he really assumes we’re never returning to England. This is so fucking sick. I’m never going to see my little flat again. This can’t be. My little cave, my shelter. Not that it meant much to me. But simply knowing that this big, but empty house could be my final abode gives me a weird feeling.

"You… left that in London…", he repeats. "You fucking left in in London. We fucking left your laptop in London. And I can’t fucking call Ted, I-… Fuck."

"Niall, what’s so bad about that? See, it’s sad because I had some photos of my mum and friends on it, but-"

"No, it’s all good, it’s gonna be okay.", Niall interrupts me with a fake smile. "It’s all good, baby. I’ll buy you a new one. You must not lack for anything, it’s gonna be fine. I can take care of the renovation, too. I’m good at this. I might be a coke addict, but I’m also a domestic irishman. And I’m good with tools and all that stuff." He winks at me, trying to downplay what he said before.

"Yeah, sure.", I sigh, reaching out to carry his suitcase, but he refuses to give it to me.

"I’ll take these upstairs. You can sit down, relax a little. Maybe nap. Just don’t run away."

"I won’t.", I promise.

___________________________

___________________________

____________________________

"Doctor Meyers! Doctor Meyers!" She hates how weird her voice sounds when she’s stressed. As a psychotherapist, she should still know better than bothering about herself. But it seems as if she’s not half as much of a good therapist as she thought she was.

She failed. Someone took the file.

And it wasn’t like it as Robert’s file, the red haired man with the Oedipus complex, or the collection of notes she took during the sessions with Sarah, the most cliché anorexic she ever treated. Morgan Valentine’s file were the literal chronicles of one of her most difficult, most complex patients in about thirty years. And now, they were gone.

She called the police, she called Morgan, who didn’t pick up, she called all the other shrinks, and none of them said they’d taken it. She called them all. She wanted to call the guy who called her with a blocked number a few days ago and looked up his name only to find out he had shot himself in his office. That didn’t ease her at all, it only made everything worse.

The only hope she had left was Doctor Meyers, a young, but very intelligent psychiatrist who sometimes visited the Bethlem Royal to give talks on drug addiction. Because there was one person associated to Morgan that Meyers surely heard of before. And concerning he treated some celebrities already, there was a slight chance he knew him.

It was ridiculous enough that out of all women who ever sat in Doctor Rossdale’s office, Morgan was the one to fall in love with an internationally known ex singer and drug addict. Not that sane men deserved the trouble she put one through, but the fact that Niall was mental himself didn’t make it any easier, too.

"Doctor Rossdale!", Meyers greets his colleague. "How are you?"

"Skip the kindkness, Brian, there’s something I need to ask you." The hallways of the Bethlem Royal are empty today. It’s beautiful outside so those who were allowed were out on the grounds for a walk in the spring sun.

"How can I help you?", Brian Meyers asks, leaning forward since he’s way taller than the worried looking woman in front of him.

"Niall Horan. Ever heard of him?"

"Yeah, sure.", Meyers says. "He was in that boyband. My sister was nuts about them. She liked that guy with the tattoos. Not the dark haired one. The guy who was always acting so, how did she call it, sassy. Louis. Yes, that was his name. My sister was obsessed. Maybe she was the reason I wanted to become a psych-"

"Okay, fine, it’s not about this Lewis no!", she interrupts him. He’s shocked by how loud she can be, but he nods. "I’m asking, did you hear of Niall? Or did you hear of him?”

"You know that I can’t tell you.", Brian mutters.

"Doctor Meyers, this isn’t about gossip, this isn’t about selling my knowledge to the newspapers, in which he, and one of my patients, were in lately, by the way. I’m sure you saw it."

"I did.", Meyers replies. "I was shocked, I mean… Your patient, going out with Niall Horan. But seems as if you’re doing a good job."

"No!", Doctor Rossdales squeauls. "I’m not! That’s the problem! The file! Morgan Valentine’s file is gone! Someone stole it from my office here. It’s gone. And the only suspicion we have is one of the nurses that claims to have seen a brunette, pale man in a dark jacket coming here, but he greeted you, so she wasn’t alarmed and didn’t tell him to leave."

"Fuck.", Meyers says, quickly covering his mouth with his big hand. "Fuck."

"Yeah, frick.", Doctor Rossdale sighs, refusing to say the bad word Morgan uses way too often.

"That was Mr Horan, indeed. And yes, he knows me from… See, I’m not allowed to tell you, but I will. I’ve met him several times, he’s been trying to quit, wanted to go to rehab, but,-… Fuck. Do you think he stole Miss Valentine’s file?"

"I’m almost convinced he did."

"We’ve got a few calls to make then.", Doctor Meyers mutters. "This is pure shit. I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I mean. I didn’t think about it, I thought he was here for therapy or something, I-"

"You screwed up, but so did I.", Doctor Rossdale interrupts him. "I’m just afraid that calling him, or Morgan, won’t be that easy. They vanished. Niall’s manager commited suicide."

"Is it proven that it was suicide?", Doctor Meyers asks.

"Yes. But… In another case I’m afraid it wasn’t.", Doctor Rossdale whispers, hearing footsteps coming closer.

"Do you mean-"

"Yes. We’ll talk about that later. For now, I just need your help to keep it all secret. Especially because I’m afraid I’ll have to break into a flat.", Doctor Rossdale continues. "I made up my mind and realised we better don’t get the cops involved first. After all, they’d blame me, too."

"I understand. But you’re aware of the fact that if they ask me, I won’t-"

"Yes, and I don’t expect that of you, Doctor. But it’s about Morgan Valentine. My dear Morgan. And Niall Horan. Who knows about him and what he’s got in mind with her. And he knows… He knows it all if he read the file. We need to find out where they are. This is about life or death.”

"Excuse me, Doctor?" A voice by the door asks.

Doctor Rossdale turns around to see Zoe, a bipolar patient who’s been living in the Bethlem Royal for ages, a hair puller and histrionic, slowly walking out of her room. Her green eyes are wide and filled with joy. “Did I hear right?”, she asks. “Is Morgan coming back?”

_______________________________

_______________________________

_______________________________

I’m floating in the warm water, under a dark blue night sky, spiked with silver stars. His hand’s locked with mine so we don’t drift apart. There’s no wave churning the ocean tonight. The seagulls are sleeping, there’s nobody else on the little beach behind the hills in the back of what Niall calls his little garden.

"You can, like, plant trees. We could grow fruit like a proper couple. Do you like apples or peaches? We can grow both. Even oranges since we’re in Los Angeles. Isn’t that crazy? We can grow a whole plantation, Morgan. We can be fruit farmers. We can be anything you want to be. Mostly, happy.", he said. I just shook my head, trying hard not to give him the satisfaction of a smile.

Now, we’re quiet, but it’s okay. More than okay, it’s good. I think about drowning, especially the moment the water fills your lungs and you know there’s no chance you’ll make it to the surface again, so you just hold still, give up, let the ocean drag you down, looking up to the sky with burning eyes that slowly go blind, just like I do it now, before it’s all dark. People say that drowning is the most horrible death of all. I beg to differ.

I grab Niall’s hand a little tighter, tug him closer. He chuckles and turns his head, gets on his feet and pulls me into his arms. The lapping of the water soothes me.

"Didn’t I promise you I’d take you to the beach?", he asks. "And this is all ours."

"Oh you promise me a lot, Niall.", I sigh. "Did I ever promise you anything?"

"Yes. You promised you were mine, for example. Just mine." He slaps my ass underwater and I giggle. We’re both naked. Diving into the cold blue in nothing but your goosebump covered skin is like falling into a dream, everything’s silent, so serene and comforting, since water is so much thicker than air.

"But there’s another thing I want you to promise me. Two, maybe.", Niall whispers.

"What?", I ask.

"Promise you won’t break my heart, Morgan. I love you. Promise you won’t hurt me."

"I promise.", I say. I could never break something whose existence I question anyway. And hurting him would only hurt me.

"You won’t hurt me?"

"I won’t hurt you, Niall. Not purposely at least."

"Try."

"I’ll try."

"And also-"

"Wait, wasn’t that two?", I interrupt him.

"No, another one. Promise me you’ll be a good girl and do what I tell you more often. When it counts. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but in a bad case, listen to what I tell you, okay? Don’t listen to the voices, don’t listen to the next best impulse."

"Are you asking me to put your words before my instinct? This is ridiculous." I pinch his cheek and shake my head. "You might own my ass, Daddy, but I’m not a little girl that you can order about all the fucking time."

"Don’t tease me in a moment as pure as this, Morgan.", Niall chuckles darkly.

"Nothing about us is pure, Niall. We’re the epitome of impurity."

He just nods and kisses me again. “Promise me though, Morgan. I need you to be promise me.”

"Fine.", I sigh. "I’ll try."

"That’s what I want to hear. Good girl. My girl. I fucking love you."

For a second, I’m tempted to say it, too. But I turn my head and swallow, look up at the stars and lean my head against his chest. He wraps his arms around me and quietly sings a song that makes my stomach hurt, because I haven’t heard it in so long and I remember wishing someone would dedicate these lyrics to me.

"There’s a part of me that still believes my soul will soar above the trees. But a desperate fear flows through my blood, that our dead love’s buried beneath the mud.", he sings. "I said I got no time, I have to go, and I was more right than I will ever know. Let’s grow old together and die at the same time, let’s grow old together and die at the same time. He said to lose my life or lose my love, that’s the nightmare I’ve been running from, so let me hold you in my arms a while, I was always careless as a child."

"Shut up now or I’ll start crying.", I interrupt him and kiss him before he can sing any more. "This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been to I think. I love the ocean, I fucking love the ocean."

"You can say that you love the ocean, but you can’t say that you love me?"

"Uh-uh.", I mutter, remembering Fefe’s words. "You’re a fire, Niall, not an ocean."

He kisses me, hard and rough this time. As he tilts back, the moonlight casts a silver shadow on his face. He swallows, I watch his jaw move. I know he’s gonna say something that’ll only make my stomach turn again.

He inhales, looks me in the eyes and says: “Morgan, there’s something I have to tell you.”


	17. Grains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little boys love to play with guns

"What if I don’t wanna hear it after all?", I ask. My voice sounds a thousand miles away. My hair’s dry, it smells like salt and the taste of the ocean’s still on my lips. My skin is warm and soft. I’m tired, dizzy. Drunk on the waves that seem to surround me still. I never knew floating in the water would make walking so hard.

I do wanna hear it. I want to know. I’m dying to find out the truth. Whatever it may be. But it scares me. I’ve been trying to get the bag, been going through the papers. I haven’t given up on wanting to know what’s happening and why, haven’t put my worries aside just because my irrational love for Niall outweighed them or because I did drugs with a beautiful woman in front of greedy men. I need to know why I’m here. I need to know what it all means.

I never asked for the meaning of anything. I never questioned any reasons. Before Niall.

Just now I realise that I seem to have lived two lives. Before Niall. And with Niall. And the life I led a long time ago. But thinking about that hurts my head. I feel both physically and mentally unable to think back to the time where Niall was a poster boy and I wore razorblades around my neck.

I hit myself in the face to chase these thoughts.

"Morgan, stop!", Niall yells at me, stumbling forward and wrapping his fingers tightly around my wrist to keep me from slapping myself again. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Yes, what am I doing?

I’m calm. I’m so calm, actually. Or was.

The beach left me so tired, so peaceful. But now, my fear seems to take over. I’m shaking. Niall went upstairs to the gallery like second floor, where he had hidden the black bag before. Came back downstairs to me. I’ve been waiting on the sofa, naked. We didn’t take towels to the beach and as we walked back to the house, on bare feet, with grains of sand between our toes and our fingers intertwined, our clothes got sticky and started to itch. I don’t mind being naked around Niall. I don’t mind being that vulnerable around him anymore. I don’t mind showing him all of me because I want all of him as well. He put on new boxers though, joking it was “for his own safety”, then walked up to get the bag. And as soon as he put it on the table in front of me, I started shaking.

"You deserve to know it.", he said, putting his hand on my knee. "I have to tell you. So you’ll stop asking and stop spying on me. Because I can’t live like this."

That’s when I said that maybe, I didn’t even want to hear it.

"Morgan, are you okay?", he now asks, still standing there with my wrists in his grip.

"Yeah, I’m good.", I lie.

"Why were you hitting yourself?", he wants to know.

"I was just… Sometimes I…", I try to explain something that can’t be explained because I don’t get the reason why, too. I wanted to scare the monster away. "I wanted to scare a monster away." I smile, hoping he’ll relax and let me go, but he frowns and asks:"The monster? Morgan, are you okay?" His eyes flicker to the bag on the table.

"Yeah, sure, it’s just… I guess it’s the drugs Harry gave me last night.", I play it down. Finally, Niall lets me go.

He stretches and looks at me, shaking his head. “I’m worried about you, babygirl.”, he says. “I’m very worried about you. But you’re safe with me. I just need you to know that you’re safe, okay? Tell me you know that you’re safe.”

"I know that I’m safe?", I say, not sure why he needed me to tell him that. Why he keeps reminding me of it. What is he keeping me safe from?

He inhales deeply, picks up the bag and sits down on a chair he positioned in front of the sofa, taking the bag on his lap. “Do you promise me not to run away?”

"I’m not going to run away.", I say. "Where should I run anyway? I don’t know this town. I don’t know why we’re here. But I guess you’ll tell me?"

"Yes.", Niall says in a low voice. "Fuck.", he then mutters to himself. "I can’t do this." I’m not sure if he wanted me to hear this, I just pretend I didn’t.

"Promise you’re not going to leave me?", he asks.

"Niall, you’re not going to tell me you’re a serial killer, are you?" I swallow and force myself to smile at him even though now that I said it, my fear turns into pure panic. My entire body’s shaking, I once again feel like my soul has left my body and quietly watches it collapse from the other side of the room, with an evil smirk on the scary mask my inner self wears. "Niall?"

"No, of course not.", he then says and clears his throat. "Fuck this shit, I can’t do this!"

"Yes, you can.", I dryly say. "Niall, why do we have fake identities? And don’t tell me again that it’s just a game. It’s not a game, right? It’s dead serious."

"Dead serious.", he chuckles. "Dead serious."

"Niall, you’re scaring me."

"I know."

He unzips the bag and reaches inside. My heart skips more than one beat. And then, he pulls out a gun. A classic 9 mm pistol. For some reason, I feel the urge to hit myself again, a gestic expression of what seeing Niall with the gun in his hand feels like. It’s an unfamilar sight, almost ironic. And I can’t deny I kind of like the sight of him holding the gun.

"Keep your hands where they are.", he warns me before he puts it on the table. He reaches into the bag again and I hold my breath. My eyes are still glued to the pistol when he puts two phones right next to it.

"Pick one.", he says. "These are our new phones. They can’t be tracked. The men we met on the jet made sure that these work more like walkie talkies. They’re connected to each other and that’s it. You can only call me. But you don’t need to call anyone else anyway. And why would you have to call me. I’m only gonna go, like, grocery shopping, get us some food. We’ll go anywhere else together. I’m not gonna leave you alone."

"Niall?" My voice is just a weak whisper by now. "Where is my phone?”

I haven’t felt the need to use it since we’ve arrived. Just now I realise that I also can’t. Because it’s not here. “Where is my phone?”

"We forgot that in London, too. But you don’t need that anymore, too. Just like your laptop. Don’t worry, okay?" He smiles at me, shows me a big fucking white teeth lie.

I don’t know what the fuck’s going on. Is he kidnapping me? Is he a not just a drug addict and overly aggressive danger to those who provoke him, but also a mental hijacker? Or is there another reason as to why I find myself in something close to the erasement of my life before him, like we run from the law? Or what are we running from? Should I run from him? I should’ve ran away when I could. My love ties me to him, delivers me to whoever hides behind that smile.

"But I worry.", I quietly confess.

"No." He slams his hand on the table and looks at me with big, mad eyes. "This doesn’t work if you don’t trust me!"

"But I trust you!"

"Then stop worrying! I’m keeping you safe!"

"Safe from what?"

He opens his mouth as if he was to shout back at me, but then he hestitates, his lids flutter, he turns his head and closes his mouth again. Instead of talking, he puts several bags of white powder and weed next to the gun and the phones.

"Nice.", I sarcastically comment. "So I can’t have my phone, but you can have your drugs?"

Obviously offended, Niall hisses: “Yes, damn right. Because believe it or not, they’re not half as dangerous in my hands as a phone in yours.”

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?", I shout. I’m fed up with his vague drivel. "You’re confusing me again! You said there was something you needed to tell me. Then tell me! Or were you just talking about that damn gun right here-"

I reach out to grab it, but Niall grabs my hand in a split second. “Keep. Your. Hands. Where. They. Are.”, he hisses, sounding not as strict as he probably intented on. I’m still scared. I obey and put my hand back on my leg. He watches me. His bottom lip is shaking. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s scared, too.

"Morgan, what I wanted to tell you, besides showing you the stuff you were curious for was… Ted killed himself.", he then says. "It’s not like we didn’t see it coming, right? And he’s probably better off dead anyway."

"He killed himself?", I ask. It’s hard to breathe, even if fresh ocean air blows through the open windows of the house. Our house. My new home.

"Well, I didn’t kill him.", Niall says and shrugs.

For some reason, these words sting. I feel taken back to the last time I cut, to the lump in your stomach you feel when you’re being triggered like a gun, tempted to do something bad because some simple words, a plain action of another person, something you saw on TV or read, a colour, a scent, woke the monster in you. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill him. Why do these words echo in my head? My left hand’s shaking so hard, I can barely control it. I want these words to leave my head. The voices inside can’t drown them. I feel like I’m drowing, though.

"Morgan?", I hear Niall’s voice, much softer now. "Don’t. Okay, stay with me."

I thought this wouldn’t happen to me again and I wonder why it happens just now, but I feel all the symptoms and I know what they mean.

Cold shivers, sweaty palms, heavy breathing. The voices screaming at me. The room in front of my eyes is no longer a room, it’s a white hole and I’m falling. Niall reaches out to touch me, but I turn away. He puts his hands on my naked back and it feels like they burn me.

"Stay with me Morgan, it’s all good, I got you.", is the last thing I hear before I pass out.

_________________________________

_________________________________

_________________________________

The neighbourhood is neat and clean, much different from what she had imagined it like. The way Morgan had talked about her flat made her believe despite the fact it was located in Marylebone, it was an ugly flat, but the house looks pretty, an old building with a nice garden. She spots an older woman at the door and inhales deeply before she climbs the stairs and approaches her.

She carries a very ugly looking dog in her arms that barks at Doctor Rossdale once she reaches the front door.

"Good evening!", the old woman greets her with a smile. "Here to visit someone?"

"No,- No, wait, yes! I want to surprise my niece!" Doctor Rossdale hopes that all the years of working with liars, she became a good one herself.

"Your niece?", the woman repeats. The dog doesn’t stop barking. Doctor Rossdale never liked dogs.

She was a cat person. Had three of her own. Dobby, Hedwig and Professor McGonagall.

"Yes, my niece.", she says. "Morgan Valentine."

"There’s no Morgan Valentine in this house.", the woman snorts.

Doctor Rossdale looks back at the piece of paper in her hands. The adress on it is right. This is where Morgan lives. “But-“, she begins, when suddenly, she remembers. “Morgan Sanders.”

"Morgan Sanders!", the woman repeats. "I think that’s the grumpy ska-" She clears her throat as if she wasn’t going to call Morgan a skank and says:"She lives on the top floor I think."

"Do you know if there’s a housekeeper who’s got all the keys?"

"Yeah, Mr Brown. He lives in the house. Ground floor. He’s at home, you just got to knock."

Without any hestitation, Doctor Rossdale passes the woman and enters the house. “Thank you!”, she yells as she walks straight towards the door that’s supposedly Mr Brown’s.

"You’re welcome.", the woman sarcastically mumbles, putting the dog on its feet and walking out.

Doctor Rossdale puts her hair behind her ears and hopes there’s no croissant crumbs left on her thin spring scarf. It was so expensive, but she hates how it looks on her. Lime green doesn’t suit her at all. It doesn’t make her seem trustworthy. She wants to look serious, wants the housekeeper to believe her and give her the keys right away. She knocks on his door and waits. It takes some time, she knocks again, but then, the doorknob turns and the door swings open.

The man in front of her is about her age, just shorter. He looks like a chunky Robert Downey Jr.,

just bald. “Can I help you?”, he asks, obviously pleased with the strange woman in front of him.

"Yes. My name is Katherine Sanders, I’m Morgan Sander’s aunt. We haven’t met in a while and-"

"God, this girl’s got a big family, huh? I never knew. Barely ever saw anyone around anyway for years. And now they’re all doing their surprise visits at once.", he laughs. "She isn’t at home. She hasn’t been home in a while. I think she’s with this irish guy, wherever he may live. Just wait, I’ll get the keys. I’ll open the door for you."

Well, that was easy. She’s lucky Morgan really isn’t at home. She didn’t expect her to be home, she didn’t even really consider the possibility. But now she’s glad she really isn’t. But does the housekeeper have to come upstairs with her? And what does he mean by surprise visits and big family? Doctor Rossdale knows for a fact that Morgan doesn’t have a big family. Quite the opposite is the case.

"Excuse me?", Doctor Rossdale asks. "Has anyone been here recently? Been here as in visiting Morgan, my niece, I mean?"

"Yeah, sure. Your sons as far as I know.", Mr Brown says with a crooked smile. He stares at Doctor Rossdale’s cleavage, which makes her more than just uncomfortable. Then, he passes her and walks to the stairs. "Follow me."

"My sons?", the doctor asks. "I don’t have any children."

"Then who were these men in suits that visited her some days ago?" Mr Brown asks. "I was suspicious anyway. See, I had a few drinks, it was long after dark. They came and asked for the keys and I told them to fuck off because they could’ve been rapists or something. Even though they looked like businessmen. They told me they wanted to visit their cousin. That little lady in the smallest flat in this house. The one with the killer eyes. Anyway, suddenly I saw that irish guy your niece was seeing at the staircase. I know that lad, just don’t know where from. He told them to be quiet and led them up to the flat. They left again half an hour later. Maybe they were hookers. Maybe your niece had a foursome going on."

Doctor Rossdale’s brain is rattling. Who were these men? Were they associated with the man called Ted that called her on a blocked number, then commited suicide? That seemed likely. Her bones feel like pudding now. She’s scared. She feels more and more like owners of dogs who’ve been good all their life but then turn out to have killed all the cats in the neighbourhood. What is Morgan involved in? What does a man like Niall Horan hide?

He’s been in the press for mistreating women lately. Maybe it was all made up. But she worries about Morgan now that she thinks about it. Men like him and young women always make a good story. She hopes it was just made up. Thinking about The Sun, somewhere in her overworked brain, there’s an alarm bell ringing, but Mr Brown hums the british anthem and the therapist can’t focus. She’s getting more and more convinced that she chose the wrong job. Maybe she should have become a cook, like her father.

After climbing more stairs than in the three past months summed up, she arrives at the door to Morgan’s flat.

"Here we are. I haven’t seen her in a while anyway.", Mr Brown says. "I like that girl, though. There’s something about her. She seemed familar to me when she first moved in. Pretty little thing."

"Yeah, she really is an angel." Doctor Rossdale sighs, still out of breath from climbing the stairs. The next challenge is to get rid of Mr Brown, get what she’s looking for and then leave without him noticing she’s actually not waiting for Morgan to come home.

"May I ask if you’re married?", Mr Brown asks, unlocking the door.

"Excuse me?" Doctor Rossdale coughs, feeling a bit of the croissant she had retching up her gullet.

"I was just wondering, you know? You’re a beautiful lady.", Mr Brown says.

"Thank you, but yes, I am married.", Doctor Rossdale lies.

Even though she’s seen worse than the housekeeper, she thanks herself for the lie because the disappointment keeps him from escorting her.

"I’ll go back downstairs. Do you expect your niece any time soon?"

"Yes of course.", Doctor Rossdale says.

Everything seems to be going very, very easy today. If she’s lucky, she’ll find what she’s looking for and get a pleasing, positive answer to the question that burns in her mind. The alarm bell in her brain rings louder.

Mr Brown doesn’t even question her actual relation to Morgan. What a stupid, shallow man. But all men Francis Rossdale ever met were stupid and shallow.

"Have fun then.", he says before he turns around and walks down the stairs. Extra slow, as if he waited for her to tell him to stay. Was he one of those men who expected women to react to their politeness by automatic attraction? What an idiot. Those were the men Morgan lied to.

Doctor Rossdale wonders if Morgan lied to Niall. No matter what, she was in love, it was obvious. She doubts she told him the entire truth. He wouldn’t have stayed with her then, unless he is much more like her than he seems to be.

She enters the flat, inhaling the perfume that filled her office whenever she had a session with Morgan. It’s small, dark, but tidy. She seems to have her life together. Morgan.

"My Morgan.", Doctor Rossdale sighs. "I hope you don’t decieve me. I hope your boyfriend’s being good to you. I hope he didn’t hurt you."

A lot of things, a lot of important decisions depend on what she hopes to find, breaking into her patient’s flat.

She does it because she likes Morgan. More than that, she always felt protective of her. She had such a sweet side to her, something lovely that most people seemed to overlook when they met her. She’s always been grumpy and cold on the outside, but a wonderful, smart and special young woman in the depths of her broken soul. Doctor Rossdale always knew it was wrong. Sympathizing with her patients, especially if they were difficult cases like Morgan Valentine, is a red flag. But she couldn’t help herself. Longing for a daughter of her own for ages, she still feels like a mother towards Morgan. And before she’d have to be Mother Gothel, she needed proof as to why Rapunzel had to be sent back to and locked up in her tower.

__________________________________

__________________________________

__________________________________

He stayed up the whole night, watching over the angel in the white sheets of what he wishes could be their conjugal bed. Her skin is covered in bruises. Not the ones he left on her with love, but those she made him cause her by trying to fight back. He told her to calm down, told her everything was alright. He held her, kissed her, rocked back and forth with her shaking body in his arms like a hysterical child. He caressed her, comforted her, put her down. Sang to her as she finally fell asleep.

And as the tears dried on her already sunkissed cheeks, he broke out in tears, too.

It was relieving to cry. He laid on his back, limbs stretched out just wide enough not to touch her, staring at the white ceiling as the salty pearls streamed down his face, tickling the corners of his eyes. He was sobbing like a child, curling up eventually, burying his face in her hair and wrapping his arms around her body so tight he was afraid he’d wake her, suffocate her, maybe. But the pills he gave her finally took hold. He hated drugging her. He hated making her unconscious, he hated lying to her, hiding it all from her. He hated being the asshole, when for her, all he wanted to be was her lover. Her light, her reason to smile. The man that brought her to paradise, the man she loved. He wanted to hear those three damn words from her so badly. And he hated himself for dedicating his whole life to a woman who could end it in a blink. He’d fucking die for her. He’d do anything.

"Anything, anything.", he cried into the air dried tangles of her hair. "I love you, I love you, I’d do anything. I’m so sorry, so sorry. I love you, I love you, I love you."

Anything. And if he has to play pretend forever, he will. The show must go on, right? He’ll put on a show for her. He’ll make her happy. Even if it’s just an illusion. He’s not really lying. He’s just keeping her safe.

This empty house, a house he once built as if he’d sensed he’d need it one day, was only his home because she was with him. He held her naked body close to his, feeling nothing but the pain his love for her caused him.

A bad, dark thought emerges in his aching head. He could grab the bag, get the gun and do it. Before she does. Of course that’s crazy. Just a thought, a fantasy. But he could. He’s got the possibility and he must keep her from taking the chance. He must keep the bag far away from her. There was more in it than the gun and the drugs and the phones anyway. And what he kept there was more dangerous than six bullets in the barrel. It was the truth.

The monster.

_________________________________

_________________________________

_________________________________

I wake up at 11 am, feeling as if someone removed all organs from my body, except for my heart, the only one I could really do without, at least in a metaphoric sense. I see Niall next to me, his blue eyes framed by violet rings. Did he sleep at all? I don’t remember what happened last night. I remember the gun, but that’s it. Phones. A panic attack. Of course. That’s it. I stretch out to touch his face and he smiles and rubs his cheek on my palm.

"Good morning.", he says. "It’s raining. I’m sorry."

"You don’t have to be sorry.", I mutter. My voice is hoarse. "You can’t change the weather."

"I’d do it for you if I could.", he whispers and bends down to kiss my forehead.

"But I like rain.", I say.

"Then I guess I don’t have to apologise.", he grumbles before he puts his mouth on mine and softly kisses me. My empty body fills with a prickling warmth and I wrap my arms around his neck. We’re both naked, our skin’s covered in goosebumps. He left the window open, cool summer air blows through the slot. The sound of raindrops against the glass gives me a weird, melancholic feeling. Trapped in this big hall of a house, white walls, white sheets and Niall’s pale skin on mine, I feel like the outcast queen of winter, trapped in a palace of ice in the middle of a summer paradise.

"I wanted to take you to the beach though.", he sighs. "And maybe go to Melrose Avenue, buy you some new dresses, buy you some new underwear." He chuckles and kisses my neck. His eyes seem swollen. Did he cry? I want to ask him, but something’s holding me back. I’m so fucking helpless with the taste of his lips intoxicating me.

"New underwear?", I ask, to distract myself from my worries.

"Whatever you like. I love to spoil you, babe.", he whispers in a much too raspy voice. "Also you know that Daddy likes to see you all dolled up. Even if you’re just as beautiful now."

I just laugh and pinch his nose. He gets under my blanket and climbs on top of me. His warm body feels so good on mine. He holds himself up on his hands as he lowers his head to plant a kiss between my breasts.

"Niall.", I breathe out his name as if I’d held it in for years. "What are you doing?"

"Shh.", he hushes me, tickling my skin. "If I can’t take you to the beach this morning I’ll at least make you cum. That’s my duty."

"Your duty?", I ask, imagining the rain outside runs through my veins, cleans me from the inside. Washes away all the pain, all the question and the fear. He’s so good to me. And I trust him. After all, I trust him. But I can’t erase it all from my mind, even though it’s covered with a black shadow. Did he drug me again?

"Yes, my duty.", he repeats. "We live together now. See, I thought of this tonight. This could be our conjugal bed, you know?"

"Are you proposing to me?"

"You’re quite obsessed with the thought, aren’t you?", he asks before kissing my belly button. "Do you want me to be your husband? Do you wanna be my little wife? Should we’ve gone to Las Vegas instead? Do you want me to marry you?"

"No.", I say. It feels like a lie. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Yeah, I think they won’t allow it anyway. Heard the americans are kinda stuck up. They’d expect a sweet girl like you to remain untouched before marriage.", he jokes, kissing all the way down to my pubic bone. "You smell good."

"Niall!"

"No, really. I love that. It’s your natural scent, your skin, your pussy, I love that. I love you."

"You’ve said that.", I sigh.

"And I won’t stop saying it.", he says before parting my folds with his fingers and licking from my entrance to my clit, making me shiver. "Hold still for me, baby."

__________________________________

__________________________________

__________________________________

They didn’t even leave her laptop back. Whoever these men were, they did a good job. They took all possible sources of information Doctor Rossdale could need with them. Except for three things: First of all, a piece of paper with four names on them. It lay under Morgan’s desk in her bedroom, a beautiful little room. Doctor Rossdale felt so close to her as she walked in. It was the first time she entered a patient’s flat. It was a whole new experience, more touching than ever thought.

There was a printed picture of Niall and her on the wall, put up with a pushpin, which was the second thing the men must have either overlooked or simply forgot. It looked like part of the decoration, but when Doctor Rossdale pulled the pin out the wall and turned the photo around, the film like irony of the text on its back made her flinch.

"Holy hell.", she mumbled as she read the former singer’s handwriting:

I know you’re looking for her and I need you to know that she’s safe. More than ever before. I’m taking care of her. I understand her. And I know it all. And I’m okay with it. She’s safe. I got her. And it’s useless to try to find her. We’re gone and we’re not coming back. And if so, not alive.

Is this a a threat? Has he kidnapped her? And where did they go? The alarm bell in Doctor Rossdale’s was so loud it caused her pain. She needed to find Morgan. God knew what Niall had in mind with her!

The last thing that was suspicious wasn’t something that was in the flat, but something that was missing. In the tableware drawer in the sad excuse of a kitchen. After all, believing she did good work, she was convinced someone with an appetite like Morgan owned a knife. Despite it all, or especially because of the fact someone like her shouldn’t own a big knife. But there was nothing like that in the drawer. Just one small, stump knife.

And that was more suspicious than the note Niall left, more worrying than the fact Doctor Rossdale was convinced she’d heard the names on the piece of paper in her sweaty hands before. She looks down on it as she tiptoes out the flat, hoping Mr Brown won’t notice her.

Whoever these people are, she needs to find them. If that is still possible…

"Emily Hastings. Delilah Smith.", she reads them over again. "And whoever Amber and Regina are…"

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

He’s by the big window at the other side of the big room the upper floor is, leaning out the frame, letting the rain pour on his head. He’s wearing nothing but his white boxers, there’s scratchmarks on his back. They look fresh, but I can’t remember causing them. I step behind him, wrap my arms around his waist. He turns around, smirking at me. He’s smoking a blunt, of course. The sweet smoke smells more and more appealing to me. I guess you can get addicted to passive smoking, too.

"Thanks again.", I giggle, kissing his shoulderblades.

"No need to thank me.", he chuckles. "I love eating you out. I love making you cum."

He turns his face back to the sky. “Look babe, it seems as if the sky’s hanging low today. Just a grey blanket. I thought this didn’t happen in Los Angeles.”

"Maybe it’s because we’re here.", I say and let go of him to lean out of the window, too.

"Careful.", he warns me, putting his free hand on my lower back. "I don’t want you to fall."

"Couldn’t fall more anyway.", I whisper.

"Was that a confession?", he asks and winks at me, blowing smoke rings. There’s just trees around us, deep green trees. If I wouldn’t know we’re in L.A, I’d believe we’re in the rainforest. The scent of the damp leaves and the soaked sand below is bewitching.

I have the urge to run downstairs and shower in the cool raindrops.

"No.", I say, feeling like a liar once again. "How are we gonna spend the day?"

"I’m really mad. Do you mind the rain at all?", he wants to know.

"Not much, no."

"So you’d still go out with me? I think we should go out. As long as we still can."

"What do you mean as long as we still can?", I ask, inhaling as much smoke as I can. That night at Harry’s definitely awoke my lust for chemicals that make pain seem like fun.

"I just said that.", he says and smiles. "No hidden meaning."

"You’re lying to me again."

"Stop accusing me of that, Morgan.", he groans, sucking on the last bit of blunt with his eyes closed.

I look at his face, at the shadows beneath his eyes. I both wanna push him out of the window and kiss his nose. Is this what love feels like?

"Get dressed babe, we’re going to town. Fuck the rain.", he says. "I’ll buy my baby something."

"Shouldn’t we eat something first?", I ask. My stomach’s back where it belongs and it’s growling.

"Well I already had breakfast." He flips the end of his blunt down and closes the window to turn around and wink at me. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Then hurry. I’ll buy you something to eat."

I listen to him calling Harry’s chauffeur, wondering if he’s our only option to get away from here.

If so, I’m even more concerned. I put on a black shirt and plain denim shorts, then wait for Niall to get dressed, too. He decides on a black shirt with cut off sleeves, too. And dark shades. He looks so good, I almost throw up in my mouth.

"We look so fucking hot together.", he says, reaching out for my hand as we leave the house. Niall locks it twice.

Ten minutes later, Harry’s chauffeur arrives and opens the doors of his car for us.

"Meeting you again so soon, Mr Hor-" he clears his throat, and corrects himself, "Mr Mitchell. Miss Singer." He greets me without looking at my face.

"Wear these, babe.", Niall says, handing me a big pair of sunglasses.

"Why?"

"Just because!", he snarls. "You’ll look cool and shit, just put them on."

I give in and put them on. The suit me, otherwise I’d refuse to wear them. Then, I get in the car and Niall sits down next to me.

"Where do you wanna go?", the chauffeur asks.

"Melrose Avenue.", Niall says. I love listening to him talking to others. When he sounds so serious, manly, so calm. "We’re going shopping."

He puts his hand on my knee and smiles at me.

"Are you happy?", he asks.

"Yes.", I say.

"That’s good. My girl." He leans foward to kiss me.

The chauffeur mumbles something we don’t understand.

"Is there anything you wanna say to us?", Niall asks him in a provokingly nice tone.

"No, nothing, Sir.", the man replies.

"Good."

"He called you Sir.", I whisper. "Does that turn you on now?"

"Don’t be silly.", Niall chuckles, pinching my thigh. Then, he turns to the driver again. "Can you roll up the parition?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Of course, Sir.", I repeat before Niall grabs my face and shoves his tongue in my open mouth.


	18. Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lights, camera, action
> 
> if he likes me, he takes me home
> 
> Come on you know you like little girls
> 
> You can be my daddy
> 
> Put me in a movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you start reading! This chapter has four parts- divided with the usual three lines. If you get to the third part and want to make the most of it, I suggest you put on the song mentioned in the Sunset Strip scene.
> 
> It’s called “Only The Brave” and it’s by a really cool band called The Last Royals.
> 
> For the ultimate experience you might as well check out the entire Impurity playlist ( available on Spotify too ! ) .
> 
> Just click here for the tracklist
> 
> And here for the Spotify Web Player
> 
> And now enjoy the new chapter! It’s very long and smutty. Have fun!

Soaked to the skin and with his taste still lingering on my tongue, I run. It’s so easy, it feels natural. It feels like I’m flying. I think back to when I ran from the café. I ran from something. Now, I ran towards something. Running is, in fact, a pure and subtle form of self harm, it burns and it hurts, but it sets you free. Other than crying, other than cutting, you don’t get weaker the more you do it. The more you run, the faster, stronger, further you get.

The rain is blinding me, the sharp bay city air burns in my lungs and even though I can barely breathe, I laugh. So does he. I’m bound to follow, he’s got his hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me with him, running down the boulevard, passing by faces I will never see again. I feel like a child in Disneyland.

"This is Hollywood.", he told me as we got out of the car. He made sure I wore my shades, a disguise he said I needed, for whatever reason. "Welcome to Wonderland."

Wonderland, to me, was wherever he was. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing, though. But right now, I am happy. The mood swings he puts me through seem unbearable to a person with a less stressful past than me, but after all the shit I’ve put myself through, feeling this much at once and going from wanting to murder him to wishing he would, despite my hate for such cheesy things, force me into one of those Vegas like chapels and make me his wife, his psycho wifey, forever till the day we die, is an adventure that keeps the pieces of my heart beating, bleeding. Sticking a little closer together in the red mush.

Niall slows down and I stop not to crash into him. My feet ache, he opens his arms to pull me close, kissing me on the lips in front of all the strangers who hurry to get into the next best shop to keep their fancy clothing clean and dry. Niall enjoys publicly displaying the affection he feels for me and it seems that he feels a little safer to do it in the foreign town, with expensive shades on our faces and fake identities. Do not think about that now, Morgan, I warn myself to keep the magic of this film like moment in the middle of Hollywood.

"You still taste like cum.", Niall mumbles and bites my earlobe, which sends a shiver down my spine. "Want a proper breakfast now?"

"Yes." I nod and he points at a restaurant at the other side of he road.

"We gotta run a last time to cross.", he sighs with a shrug, inhales and grabs my arm. Just a step away from the sidewalk, a car rushes by.

"Holy fuck!", I gasp, able to jump forward a second before it would’ve run me over. My knees get weak and I sink into Niall’s arms.

The driver honks and Niall flips him off, shouting: “Watch the fuck out, cunt!” Then, he turns to me. “Are you okay?”

I nod. The sudden fear replaces itself with pure adrenaline now. “Fuck, yes. I’m okay.”, I say, turning around to make Niall let go of me. He immediately reaches out for my wrist again.

"We really can’t go anywhere without risking your life.", he mutters. "Come."

"I’m okay, Ni."

"Yeah, sure. Come on. You need to eat now."

The restaurant is classic american, intentionally built and furnished like one of those cute 50s diners where women with pink cheeks serve free coffee in frilly aprons. The floor is tiled and black and white, the leather seats bright red. There’s a big music box, the walls are decorated with photographs of famous actors and singers of the past. Each booth has a framed picture of another celebrity. Niall and I sit down below Johnny Cash.

I pick up the menu as Niall puts his feet on mine under the table. I’m starving, my stomach growls. I’m in the mood for something sweet. I attempt to take off the shades.

"Keep them on, please.", Niall mumbles, turning his head to check if some of the other guests are watching.

"No way.", I respond and put them on the table. "I want to have breakfast, not star in the new Blues Brothers film. And neither do you. So take the shades off your face and the stick out of your ass."

He raises his brows to give me a dunning look, but he can’t stay serious. He tries hard not to laugh and just snorts. “Stick in my ass, huh? I’ll stick something in yours if you keep being so sassy. It’s fucking annoying.”

"I’m just right.", I insist and wink at him.

"Yeh, sure.", he chuckles, giving in and taking off his sunglasses, not without checking on the others first, though. "So, what does my sassy little idiot girl want to eat?"

"A lot.", I say. "I think I’m taking the pancakes with chocolate syrup and a big banana milkshake. As an appetizer." I smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back. He seems a little stressed now that the shades are off. Why does he want to hide his face so bad? Doesn’t he want to be seen with someone like me? No, that can’t be. I mean, they already saw us out in London. They know we’re together.

We’re together. As a couple. Saying this to myself in my head still feels like a lie. Too good to be true and a torture in reality at the same time. Not half as funny as being with a celebrity seems to be when you’re at home, hating your life and wanting nothing but to trade it against the glamour those fake smiles on magazine covers promise you. But they’re just people. Messed up people. People who struggle, too. But finding this out only made me like Niall more. Made me feel that one thing for him I can’t seem to admit in fron of him.

"That sounds delicious.", he says and reaches out to grab my hand, solely to hold it. A pretty waitress walks over to our booth. She’s gorgeous. I can’t keep myself from letting my eyes flicker to Niall’s face, searching for a sign of attraction in his expression, but he doesn’t even really look at her as he orders.

"We’re having a big plate of pancakes with chocolate syrup. If you could put sugar sprinkles on it, that would be nice. And a big banana milkshake.", he says in a fake american accent.

"That’s it?", the waitress asks. Her eyes scan Niall’s chest and I can tell that she likes what she sees. I feel the lump in my throat pulsate, a sudden pain in my stomach alerts me, calling attention to this girl looking at what I, against all odds, claim as mine.

"Oh, and a coffee. Black.", Niall adds.

"Nothing for you?", she asks and I know she only asks because she wants him to finally look at her. "We’ve got delicious waffles."

"I can imagine.", he says in a rather harsh tone and it pleases me more than it should. "But no." I still wonder why he isn’t ordering any food. The waitress lets out a way too loud sigh and says: "Okay", then walks off, only to turn around again before she reaches the bar.

"Why don’t you eat?", I ask him.

"Not hungry.", he responds with a shrug.

"What did you take, Niall?" It’s obvious that some of the chemicals he keeps swallowing keeps his stomach full with acid. His pupils are wide, too. They always are and I sadly got used to it, but now that I focus on them I can tell it’s intense this noon.

"Come on, Morgan, there’s people around.", he hisses. "Let’s not talk about this now."

"We never do.", I hiss back.

"Oh yeah, that’s right.", he snarls. "That’s exactly how it should be. There’s other things we don’t talk about. For our own good. I respect your issues, I can expect you to respect mine."

That hurt. His word cut sharper than any razorblade I ever dragged across my forearm skin and I can feel them sting in shock about his bluntness. He just attacked me, blamed me for the darkness within, the numbness, the urge to feel pain. He attacked the monster and it bares its teeth in defense. My skin is itching from our damp clothes drying.

"Thanks a lot, you fucking asshole.", I say and pull my hand out of his, proceed to get up and stumble, as his feet are still on mine.

"For fuck’s sake!", he gasps, grabbing my arm to save me from falling.

Everyone in the diner heard that. They turn their heads and watch Niall quietly forcing me to sit back down with strict eyes and a whispered “Stay. There.”

I feel the anger adding up to a ball of fire in my chest. I’m hurt and mad at Niall. Once again. This is how quickly my emotions change. It’s like I’m on drugs, not him. Well, maybe I am. It’s not like he didn’t drug me before. Yet, I’m here, trusting him. Letting his words affect me.

"I’m sorry.", he says, his eyes widening at the sight of my obviously sad face and shaking bottom lip. "I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t talking about the cutting and all that anyway, baby, I’m sorry. Forget what I said, okay? Forget it all. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m an asshole, you’re right. Okay? Are we good, baby?"

He sounds so fucking desperate now. “I’m so sorry.”, he repeats.

I just shake my head and remain silent because I see the waitress coming with a plate of steaming pancakes covered in chocolate and pink sprinkles.

"Here you go.", she says and puts the plate in the middle of the tabble, handing me the milkshake, too. "Bon appétit."

She smiles at Niall, but he keeps his eyes on me. I turn to her and say “Thank you” before I pull the plate closer and pick up the knife. The pancakes look delicious. Thick, golden, sweet. My mouth is watering.

"They look good.", Niall comments in an innocent tone. He’s trying to act as if nothing happened. He’s so good at this. This might be his biggest talent. He’s a better liar than musician, and that’s just crazy.

"Don’t make a fool out of yourself now.", I snarl. "You said it, I heard it, and it hurt me."

"I’m so fucking sorry, babe, you get me wrong though, I didn’t mean what you think I meant, I-", he stutters, but I interrupt him.

"Then what do you mean? What other issues do I have than being a fucking psycho?"

"Babe, could you be a little more quiet, the others don’t need to-", he says, but I’m not done yet.

"Well, big fucking newsflash, you’re a fucking psycho, too!", I finish and slam my fist on the plastic table. The picture of Johnny totters.

"Baby!", he warns me with a pleading expression, grabbing my hand and forcing a kiss on its back. "Please calm down, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it that way."

"Whatever.", I snarl and put a big chunk of pancake in my mouth. "Why the fuck did you order sugar sprinkles on top?", I munch.

"I thought you’d like them.", he mumbles and pouts. "Sugar sprinkles for the sassy little idiot girl."

I roll my eyes and call him a dick, then finish my plate and milkshake without saying anything else. He watches me, which makes me more than uncomfortable, but I stare back to provoke him. He doesn’t get affected by it at all. I hate him so much, especially because my anger decreases and fades into the usual affection, and that makes me hate myself.

I lick the plate clean, hoping to gross him out and show any sign of emotion other than that dumb smile I put on his pale face, but he just smiles even brighter and I show him my middle finger. We’re acting like a teenage couple that got into a fight.

"Do you want anything else?", he then asks.

"No. I’m full for now.", I respond. That was a portion for two people and I ate it all alone. I don’t care. It was delicious and I missed eating proper meals. "Do you wanna do a line on the toilets?", I ask to tease him. "I’ll wait here. But don’t pass out, I want to go to the arms shop and get a gun to shoot you. Oh, wait-", I add in a quiet voice because this time, the others really don’t need to hear it. "-we already have one."

His jaw drops, he clenches his fists. Planned, aimed, shot. Bull’s-eye. That was a proper payback.

He’s offended and shocked, his paranoia makes him check on possible witnesses again.

"That’s not fucking funny, Mo-", he stops midway as if he remembered better not to mention my name.

"Why, Niall?", I provoke him.

"Shhh!", he hushes me. "Shhhh!"

I smile, feeling eased and even now. “I think I’m very funny.”, I say and stick out my tongue.

Niall realises nobody heard us and exhales, running his fingers through his still wet hair. “You’re so gonna get your ass spanked for this.”, he snarls through his teeth. “I’m gonna fucking ruin your ass for that. Might as well fuck it, how would you like that?”

I press my lips together, trying to not let his dirty talk get to me. He knows I like that. This is more of an appealing promise than a threat. He sure as hell knows that, too. The corners of his mouth curl up, the dimple on his cheek shows. “Yeh, you actually want that, huh?”, he whispers, leaning closer. “You wouldn’t even mind if I did that. Maybe I should do the opposite. Maybe I should ban the sex. Maybe I should fuck you, fuck you to the point at which you’re about to cum, then don’t let you. Over and over again. That would be a better punishment.”

He was more scared of being looked in the face than being overheard saying these things. He’s so sick. So fucking insane.

"We’re paying.", he then says to the waitress who just served some of the oh so good waffles to the people two booths next to us and she, of course, quickly follows his voice. He tips her without a further comment.

"Did you realise we shared our table with the man in black?", he asks me as we get up.

"Yeah, I did.", I say. I look at Johnny’s face on the black and white photograph.

"Great man, Johnny Cash. Great man."

I turn to Niall and look into his blue eyes, wishing he could read my mind as I think of how Johnny Cash was once way too much like him, sucked up in his own world of drugs and alcohol, too blind to see that the woman he had fallen for could save him, not just pick him up, but raise him higher than he’d ever been. But I’m not like June at all. And that realisation hurts more than Niall’s words.

"Come on, angel, I know where I’ll take you next.", he says, putting his arm around my shoulder and kissing my forehead. "You could have it all, my empire of dirt.", he sings as we leave. "I will let you down, I will make you hurt." He stops only to kiss me again. "Not in my case, babe. I won’t. I won’t ever, ever let you down."

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

The urge to punch himself in the face for confronting her with what bugs the sane part of him has decreased, luckily. He knows he’s got to distract not only her, but himself as well, so he took her to a lingerie shop. Girls love that. And even though no other girl he ever met is like her, she’s like the others if it comes to lacy black underwear and cute garterbelts and all these things that’ll flatter her beautiful body.

He wants to apologise over and over again. He hopes he can ease his bad conscience with spoiling her. He never spent much money on unnecessary things. And yes, drugs weren’t necessary, but that was a different thing. If it came to Morgan, he’d fucking buy her a pet dolphin if she asked for one.

He feels like an actual sugar daddy watching her from the velvet seat he leaned back in and he enjoys it. She goes through the racks, looks at all the pretty sets individually.

"Pick whatever you like, Daddy’s gonna buy it.", he says and she turns around, pink cheeks, a smile on her face that she tries too hard to suppress too often. The progress she made is amazing, but he constantly wonders if that’s a good or a bad thing. He’s just as proud as scared of her and that’s just a sign of how gone he is for that girl. He’s so in love, it’s horrible.

He thinks of his father and how he once told a magazine that he’d make a great husband. The caring, loving, well mannered, domestic irishman everyone thought he’d end up as. A little potbelly. A beard. Two children and a wife that applied to the western world’s beauty standards. The dad pants kind of life.

What he really ended up as was a broken shadow of a skinny wannabe rockstar, with bags under his eyes and little bags with white powder in his pockets, the same stuff in his prominent veins. An empty belly. Stubbles because he didn’t care. A hate for children who recognised him from their mother’s old records, children who were, in the worst case, even named after him. The amount of seven year old Harrys and Zayns he had to take pictures with was ridiculous. And instead of a wife, he had this crazy, mental, dangerous girl, her face and body a whole new kind of infatuating beauty, her kisses more toxic than the shit he kept in his tight jeans. The fucked up, rotten kind of life.

"How do you like these?", she asks, showing him a warm pink set of see through underwear.

"Slutty.", he chuckles. "I like that."

There’s no other customers in here and the shop assistant is on the phone. “Try it on.”, he says, but she shakes her head.

"I don’t know. There’s just too many. I never went to a shop like that before."

He just shrugs. He was. He bought some of his affairs underwear. It spiced it up for him. Whilst Morgan could get him hard in oversized white cotton panties. He laughs into his hand, keeping his eyes on her back and butt as she walks to the other side of the shop.

"You can have them all if you like.", he says, spreading his legs a little. He can’t keep his hand off his crotch, enjoying the slight friction of his palm slowly sliding up and down. He’d love to fuck her right on the spot. He shop looks like a damn brothel anyway. Red velvet, all those golden baroque like chairs, silver chandeliers on the ceiling. Thick violet curtains on the walls. And in fact, there’s nipple tassels and overly expensive glass toys, black ropes and crystal plugs in a showcase by the checkout. But he’ll act decent. She’s still mad at him. And she’s got every right in the world to feel this way. He’s so fucking sorry. For everything he said and all the things he can never tell her. At some point, he’ll have to, he knows it, but he prefers to live in denial until the times’ run out.

"I’ll just pick one set.", she says. "Or two."

"Like I said, I’m gonna buy you everything you like.", he repeats.

"You think you can make it all up to me this way, huh? Spoil the stupid girl and she’ll accept your bullshit." She puts down the black set in her hands and walks over to him, leaning close to quietly say: "I will never accept what you to do yourself. And what you said was hurtful. But I know you’re more than that. And that’s why I-"

He feels a cramp in his stomach, his head gets hot in a split second. Is she gonna say those three fucking words? He doesn’t know what he’d do if she really did. But she swallows and says: “Why I stay with you.”

That should do it, too. She has to stay with him. Well, she has no other choice. He hates the thought of forcing her against her will, but if he has to, that’s what he’ll do. To protect her. And the clock’s ticking. The time he’s got left to grant her the freedom she currently enjoy’s running out faster than the remaing while of lies and secrets.

That’s when suddenly, he feels his phone vibrate in his pockets. He looks at Morgan but she’s busy trying to choose between the pink and the black set. He’ll buy her both. But first of all, if she isn’t calling him, who is it? Nobody’s got the number of the phones he got. The only place it’s saved is the other one. And he put that in Morgan’s purse, and that purse is on her elbow.

He pulls the phone out. The number calling is not displayed.

"Morgan, stay where you are, okay?", he asks. She quickly turns her head. "What’s wrong?", she asks. He wishes she wouldn’t be so damn attentive and smart.

He shows her the phone, then walks into the changing room. The walls are padded, he leans against one and answers the call. “Hello?”

The voice at the other side is low and raspy. And what she says makes his stomach drop.

"I know where you are. I see you. I know what you did."

He gasps for breath, unable whether to shout back or just hang up. He’s panicking, shivering, shaking. That’s when his brain clicks and he realises that even though the stranger lowered it, the threatening voice sounds very, very familar. And if there’s anyone who’s got the phone’s number except for Morgan, it can only be-

"Harry. You fucking bastard, don’t pull that on me again if you don’t want me to fucking kill you."

"Oh, you too?", Harry laughs. Niall can see his snotty grin right in front of him. What an asshole. He’s barely ever been so scared in his whole life. He’ll punch this dick in the face the next time he sees him. He didn’t plan on meeting him, even though his chauffeur is very useful, but now he’s determined to go to his place solely to beat this fucker up. The thought of wrecking his face like Nathan’s is very appealing.

"Shut the fuck up!", he snarls. "Why did you save the number? Didn’t Ted ask for security and decency? And anonymity?"

"Ted’s dead. And I’m your friend.", Harry replies with a haughty chuckle.

"Not anymore.", Niall hisses.

"Well, maybe we weren’t friends for a while, but after you fucked your psycho slut on my coffee table while I got my dick sucked, I do consider you my buddy again."

The fact he just called Morgan a slut only makes Niall want to punch Harry harder, not just in the face, but in said dick, too. On the other hand, he’s a little amused by how little the things have changed.

He remembers that on the news, it’s often been “Harry and the boys”. Harry’s been “the Robbie”, “the Justin”, “the Nick Carter” of the band, the “favourite”, the “most popular one”, the “girl crush”. And in fact, there’s always been something special about him. And back in the day, Niall considered him his best friend. They’ve been in the youngest, two silly boys. Harry managed to be both the most dorkiest idiot Niall’s ever met and also that daunting, tall, sex fanatic gentleman in black jeans and ink. He’s always been special, but never a leader. Despite his status as the “number one” of One Direction, he always desperately looked for the “number three“‘s attention.

Harry had always tried his best to impress Niall, make him proud, amuse him, satisfy him. Maybe he’d had a little weird crush on him, maybe he really just wanted his friendship. Maybe he’d sensed what Niall was capable of, maybe he’d felt intimidated and amazed at the same time. Sometimes, Niall got annoyed with him, sometimes it was fun to watch him acting like a fool only to entertain the one everyone always underestimated. It wasn’t until he started grabbing his dick during one of the rather explicit solos of his career that the majority realised he had sexual potential, too. Thinking back to these glamourous days makes him smile.

Harry is lucky. If it wasn’t for the nostalgia his words put him in, Niall would freak out right now.

"What do you want?", he asks. Except for his right hook in the face.

"My chauffeur.", Harry slowly says. He sounds so calm, it’s upsetting. "I don’t know if you’re done with your little trip to Hollywood, but I want to go there, too."

"You’ve got like six cars, Harry.", Niall sighs.

"Yeah, but I’m not in the mood to drive today.", Harry replies. "I’m too tired."

"Then stay in bed."

"You’re talking about my chauffeur, Niall James Horan. I only lent him to you. Just like I lend you my trust.”

"You’re not gonna do that, Harry.", Niall snarls. Harry can’t tell what he knows. He promised not to. Niall’s panicking again, but Harry just laughs.

"Of course not, Niall. Don’t be so damn stupid. What am I gonna do if the cops come to my place to ask me about you and that psycho girl? I’d have to burn my fucking house down, idiot, I got a fucking plantation and I bathe in coke. They wouldn’t be too fond of my relation to the cartel, too. So calm the fuck down and just try to end your trip so you can send Geoff back to me, okay?"

"Yeah. Okay.", Niall says, wiping sweat off his forehead.

"Niall?", Morgan asks from outside the dressing room. "Are you okay? Who’s on the phone? Didn’t you say that-"

"It’s Harry.", Niall says, pulling the curtain back to step out of the dressing room.

"Oh." Morgan carries about four sets in her arms now. Seeing her eases Niall. "Say Hi."

Niall just frowns and shakes his head. “Harry, before you hang up, I’m asking you to delete my number.”

"But I enjoy talking to you.", Harry protests. "Come over if you like, let Geoff drive to my place right away. Fefe’s here, too. She can’t wait to see Marla Singer again. Met at a very strange time in our lives, but-"

"Quit the crap, Harry. At least don’t save it under my goddamn name."

"No, don’t worry. It’s saved under Nialler Baby.", Harry jokes.

"Not funny.", Niall mutters.

"Is Nick Hogan okay?", Harry sighs. "Because the only thing people who go through my contacts will ask themselves is how the fuck did Hulk Hogan’s son get Harry Styles’ highly coveted number. I’ll tell them I banged Brooke and that’s it. You look a bit like him, anyway. Just paler. And skinnier. You’re like a meth head Nick with hair."

"Shut the fuck up. We’ll drive back to our place now and send Geoff to you. Thanks for letting us take advantage of your chauffeur.", Niall says. "And please", he adds in a quiet voice, as if Morgan didn’t hear that, "delete the call, okay?"

"Is it worth paying Geoff to tell me where your place is? You must’ve given him quite a lot of cash to tell me he doesn’t talk about these things.", Harry asks instead of expanding on Niall’s plea.

"I’m asking you not to.", Niall says, gnashing his teeth.

"Mate, you sound stressed. Do you hate and distrust me this much? That’s just sad. Listen, will you trust me more if I allow you to keep Geoff for the rest of the day? Forget what I said, here’s the plan. Fefe just came in naked, in case you wonder why I changed my mind. It’s not you this time, you’re not that daunting anymore. Just a little scary. Not as scary as your girlfriend though. Anyway, pal, listen. You keep Geoff. Show your baby Hollywood, take her out, fuck her on Sunset Strip, I don’t care. When you’re done, come to my place. We’ll have another party, then Geoff’s gonna take you back to the mysterious place I’m not ever gonna ask him about. I’ve got weed and all that shit. I could ask Miguel for that pink shit he got me some months ago. Deal?"

Niall looks at Morgan. “What?”, she mouths. “What does Harry want?”

"Deal.", Niall gives in, wishing it wasn’t the last sentence that convinced him in the end. He doesn’t want to have to head back already, he wants to make the most of it for Morgan while he can.

"Perfect.", Harry cheers. "See you then, Nick. Tell your dad I dig the beard."

Niall hangs up before Harry’s done saying goodbye.

"How come he’s got your number?", Morgan wants to know.

"He’s a fucking bastard, that’s why.", Niall snarls. "I fucking hate this guy. Yet I just accepted an invitation to another party."

"You did what? Niall, as hot as it was, I don’t think we should go there again.", Morgan says. Niall can’t help but kiss her for that because he feels exactly the same. The despair he felt when he fucked her on the table wasn’t comparable to anything he ever went through before. He really needs to fuck her again to feel better about it.

"I’m afraid we have no other choice.", Niall sighs, grabbing the lingerie sets Morgan carries.

"Is it because Harry knows?", Morgan asks. She looks like a little girl with all these questions in her big eyes. Niall’s got a hard time controlling himself right now. "More than I do?"

He just nods and kisses her. The shop assisant hung up and watches them with a happy smile on her face. She’s about fifty, short and round like an apple. She seems a million times nicer to Niall than the thirsty waitress in the diner. What saddens him is that to others, he’s more of the waitress than the sweet apple lady. It used to be different, but not anymore.

"You need to tell me everything, Niall.", Morgan whispers. "Please."

"Soon."

"I thought you were going to be honest with me last night, but you drugged me. I know that you did it. I remember."

"Morgan, please be good for me now, okay? You know everything you need to know. And we’ll leave early. We’ll just do Harry the favor and leave." Niall looks at a red lace set Morgan chose. "This is hot. I’m gonna buy you all of these by the way."

"You don’t have to."

"I have to."

As the apple lady puts the sets into a luxurious looking bag, Morgan dryly chuckles and says: “The fact you willingly spend time with a person you despise and fear only to satisfy your need to be in control alarms me a little.”

Does she, after all, doubt his feelings towards her?

Once again, his stomach drops. He doesn’t hestitate to numb the pain by cupping her face and putting his mouth on hers, kissing her so passionately and hard their teeth clash, but she laughs. The apple lady sighs, not even trying to take her eyes off them until Niall tilts back and says: “You don’t have to worry, baby. I need you to stop doubting me. What else do I have to do to prove you how much I love you?”

"Stop lying to me.", Morgan whispers.

"I’m doing that because I love you, why can’t you understand? I’m protecting you."

"From what? From you?"

"Not just from me."

The apple lady gasps. She impossibly heard what they said, which is why she interrupts them by saying “Excuse me, but you are by far the most dramatic couple I’ve ever met in my whole life and I grew up in Hollywood. Rose McGowan and Marilyn Manson have been to this shop, just like Britney and Justin, Angelina and Brad- but this is a whole new level.”

Is that supposed to be a compliment? Morgan giggles in a way too high pitched voice, he knows she’s faking it, and thanks her as she hands her the bag full of lingerie.

"We’re more the Sid and Nancy type.", Niall says before he pays and leaves the shop with Morgan under his heavy arm.

As soon as he closes the front door, Margaret Miller picks up the phone again, dialing her daughter’s number at the speed of light.

"Mum?", Cecelia Miller asks. "I’m at work, what is it?"

"Darling, you remember that band you were so crazy about in your teens?", Margaret babbles.

"One Direction.", Cecelia laughs. "Yeah, sure. Why?"

"That blonde one just bought the skimpiest little lingerie sets for his girlfriend. Well, he’s sort of brunette one."

Cecelia’s used to her mother telling her about all the celebrities she meets at her shop on Melrose Ave, but she barely gets excited anymore. Right now, though, she’s happily surprised and interested in further information.

"He looked worn out, though. Poor guy. But his girlfriend was beautiful. It was almost scary. They seemed so, I don’t know, I’ve never… Well, what was his name again? Neil? Nigel?"

"Ni-"

"Wait, I got it.", Margaret inhales deeply to emphasize his name as she finally grips it. "Niall Horan. Niall Horan just left my shop. He’s in Hollywood! Oh dear!"

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

_____________________________________

This is a dream I never had coming true. Standing on the leather seats of the limousine with an open top to look around Sunset Strip as we drive down in the golden afternoon light. All the rain clouds are gone, the lights of all the signs are rainbow waves on the plastic horizon. People in costumes, flashlights, loud voices, palm trees, the intoxicating scent of popcorn and greasy burgers,

That song on the radio Niall asked the chauffeur to turn a little louder before he stood up, too, to feel the wind rushing through his spread fingers on his hands in the air, two absolute fools, rotten fucking sinners in the city of angels.

I stretch and close my eyes, feeling the wind in my face and hair. Niall kisses me and takes my hand before we both raise our arms again. I’ve never heard this song before in my life, but one chorus was enough to learn the lyrics for us, so we sing at the top of our lungs.

Like fools. Fucking fools in love.

A heartbeat later, he pulls me through the crowd, running again, putting the bottle of Jack we bought on my lips, telling me to “Drink, babe, drink”, in a hoarse voice before he kisses me in the middle of the road. My feet hurt, my lungs are sore, my lips are sticky and my insides seem to be on fire. “Do you like Hollywood?”, he asks as he makes me turn around as if we danced.

"Mhmh.", I say and laugh, feeling light and free. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the sunset over by the hills, the big white sign, nine letters that promise more than they could ever keep, just like Niall’s kisses. Maybe it’s them. Maybe it’s all of it summed up. I don’t even know where my shoes are. I’m barefoot on the warm asphalt, dancing to muffled music in the distance. But it’s loud enough in my head.

"Do you think we could be movie stars?", Niall asks.

"You already are.", I say. "You were in movies. If you asked for a role, you could make a big comeback. Or take part in one of those celebrity reality shows. Celebrity rehab."

"Stop that, Morgan.", he laughs. "I told you not to be so sassy."

"Or what?" I dance on my tiptoes. I’m bloody drunk, jumping around on the sidewalk with Niall watching me with the endearment of a father and the hunger of a lion.

"Or that.", he groans, pulling me against his body. I crash into him, weak in his arms all of sudden. He kisses me again, spitting a bit of the damn alcohol from his mouth into mine, chuckling because he did it again, pinching my ass. "Come on."

He pulls me into the next best bar. It’s full of people, the smoke is blinding me, but it’s good. Nobody watches as we sneak into the women’s restroom.

"Are you gonna fuck me?", I ask as he shoves me into a small stall, pushing me against the cold wall. He nods and pulls my top over my head, opens my bra and begins to kiss his way up from between my breasts to my neck. He sucks on it, marking me, the lets his greedy mouth wander up to mine, sliding his tongue in.

"Yes.", he says. "I’ll fuck you, baby." He’s so warm against me and I can feel that he’s hard. He’s probably been waiting for this since we left the lingerie shop. He’s so weak. It’s funny that I let him control me like that when in reality, it seems as if he needs me more than I need him. Even though a part of me is convinced that this is impossible. The same part wants to tell him how much exactly I need him, and how much I love his flushed face so close to mine his hot breath makes me shiver, how much I love his big hand between my thighs, how much I love it how he now grabs my shoulders and makes me turn around so I face the wall, pushing my face against it before pulling down my shorts and panties at once, bringing his flat hand down on my sticked out butt in a hard slap.

"Ouch!", I cry out, flinching in pain. "What was that for?"

"You know exactly what this is for.", he says before spanking me another time, groaning like a fucking animal. He wants me so bad, it makes me feel powerful, wanted and simply alive. "I told you that you’d be getting your pretty little ass spanked."

"On a public toilet.", I laugh, even though I’m hurting.

"I couldn’t wait any longer. I’m so fucking hard for you babe and I couldn’t take another hour without your tight little cunt around my cock.", he mutters, slapping my ass again. I whimper and squirm, but he keeps his other hand on my back to make me remain in this uncomfortable position. "Be a good girl. Take these like a good girl and I’ll reward you."

"You want to fuck me more than I want you to fuck me.", I respond. "You just told me."

"Cute.", he chuckles darkly. "You think you’re superior to me because of that?" He laughs, sounding so arrogant, so fucking hot, my entire abdomen tenses. "Did you forget what I said to you? I can easily fuck you to the point where you’re shaking and crying, begging me to let you cum, but guess what? Daddy isn’t gonna let you."

I wish I could turn around to grab and kiss him. I spread my legs a little, inviting him to finally take advantage of me, but he just slaps me another time, watching my ass jiggle. He’s such a kinky, filthy asshole. I want him so bad.

He dips two fingers into my throbbing wetness and laughs. “And you tell me you want it less than I do? You’re dripping for me.” I can hear him lick my juice off his fingers. Then, he finally unzips his pants and a second later, he’s in me, not hestitating to start thrusting, fucking me against the wall from behind.

He’s groaning, unsteadily breathing against my neck. He grabs the back of my head, pulls my hair, kisses my shoulder and whispers: “That’s how you like it, right?”

"Mhm.", I whimper.

"I’ve been thinking of fucking you the whole day through. I always think about it. I’m obsessed with the thought of it. And you. Fucking demon.", he groans. "I love you so fucking much. Come here. I’m hurting you, right? I don’t want that right now. Come, step back from that wall."

I wonder what he’s up to as he pulls his cock out, wishing for him to just enter me again. He wasn’t seriou about not letting me cum, was he?

"D’ya wanna sit on Daddy’s lap and ride him? I know you’re tired and so am I. Come here." He sits down on the damn toilet and pulls me on his lap. I don’t straddle him, I face the door. He cups my breasts as we get comfortable and then, I slowly move back and forth. It feels so fucking good. Being on top for a change is good in this position since I can use him the way I want, to get the most of it. He’s so hard, I circle my hips, taking him in as deep as possible while he keeps his mouth on my back, kissing me, moaning against, using his left hand to rub my clit and the right one to pinch my nipple.

As filthy as we are in the toilet stall of this bar in the middle of Hollywood, what we have is pure in the dirtiest way and I feel so fucking close to the heaven I never believed in as my wall clench around him.

"That’s good, babe.", he groans, moving his hips with mine, our thighs sticking to each other with sweat. "You’re doing so well, fucking yourself on my cock, it feels so fucking good. Tell me how it feels to you."

"It’s-", I can barely speak right now. "It’s so fucking good, Ni."

"I know, babe, I know. I’m not gonna,-.. Fuck. I’m not gonna keep you from cumming. I want you to cum. I want you to cum around me, yeh? Show me how much you love Daddy’s cock, my little psycho slut."

I can’t help myself, I’m too deep in and he’s too deep in in the literal sense, I love how he talks to me. I’ve never fucked like this before, I feel so dirty in the best possible way, riding him, using his cock while he plays with my throbbing clit, digging his teeth into the sweaty flesh of my back.

"I’m gonna cum.", he says. "D-d’ya think we can cum together? Do you think you can do this?"

"Yes.", I moan because I really want to. "I’m fucking close, I- fuck, Niall, for fuck’s sake, Jesus fucking Christ."

"Aw, babe, it’s all good, I got you. Keep on fucking me, you’re doing so well." His finger’s no more circling, no, he’s letting it twitch on my swollen clit, it almost hurts. I buck my hips against it, bouncing to intensify the feeling of his cock sliding deeper into me and I start clenching again, moaning louder than I ever did. He laughs and groans, rubbing and now thrusting a little on top of it, with no fucking mercy, muttering: "Yes… yes, babe, that’s it. Now cum. I’m gonna cum, babe, I need you to cum, too. Come on, babe. Cum for me. Come, come, come-" His encouragement is just a hoarse whisper by the time we both reach our climax.

Just when I feel his warm cum shooting into me, my muscles tense around him and I cry out his name, knowing he loves that, throwing my head back and finally sinking into his arms while I ride out my orgasm, gasping for air.

"Good girl.", he praises me. "I got you. I got you, babe. I’m so proud of you. I love you so fucking much, babe."

We remain in this strange, but wonderful position for a while, catching our breath, making out, laughing.

"That was just the beginning of our night, though.", he then says. "You know we’re invited."

"Oh, shit.", I sigh. "Yeah, I know."

"Maybe Harry will let us use his guest room.", Niall chuckles, helping me to get back on my feet.

"But maybe he’ll insist on joing in then."

"Oh, I wouldn’t mind.", I joke.

"Tss!", he gasps. "Do I have to spank you again?"

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

It’s early morning, but there’s no chance that this day’s gonna change for good.

She was looking for two girls. What she found were two graves.

Fresh. Dug a week ago. Flowers in the colors of the rainbow on top of them. “Taken Too Soon”, says on of the gravestones. Taken. That’s what they were. Unwillingly taken.

Doctor Rossdale decides it’s better to turn around and leave than to torture herself any further. This doesn’t make her any different from her patients. She knows whose graves she’ll find if she takes the shortcut to the cemetery’s exit. But she really doesn’t want to torture herself.

There’s enough stress she’ll have to go through very soon, enough pain.

Maybe she should just keep quiet. Keep it as it is. Hope. Maybe go back to church like her mother always wanted her to. Stop investigating on her own. This is not a fucking Miss Marple novel. But as hypocritical as it is, as a psychiatrist, her brain’s bigger than her head. Mind over matter. In all the years, talking to people without the slightest sign of one, her conscience had grown and grown. Like a tumor.

And she wishes she could remove it. Because two tumors in one body are opponents if it’s her heart against her mind.


	19. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who would you disguise as if you were on the run?

It’s like in one of those overdone college movies where the house is literally shining, flashing lights in all the colors of the rainbow blinding everyone in a three mile distance through the windows, the walls shaking, the floor vibrating with the bass of the way too loud music, the hot air’s nothing but thick clouds of smoke, marijuana, and what’s supposed to be somebody’s home has turned into a graveyard of drunken bodies.

"This is not what I expected.", Niall hisses through his tears. "Turn around, Geoff, take us to my place. We’re not going to that party."

This is by far not what both of us expected. Niall told me Harry said he wanted to party a little. And of course Niall wasn’t comfortable with that. He wanted to make me wear shades in public to hide from whatever, of course he wasn’t comfortable. But, as ashamed as it made me feel, I liked the kind of party we had the last time and I didn’t want to do Niall the favor and go straight back home after our adventure in Hollywood. It’s not like I mind how clingy he is, it’s just a little scary and it’s not okay for him to keep me locked away from the public to that extent. He literally locked me away once. I still haven’t completely stomached this.

But I understand that the house party we now arrive to is not what we believed “partying a little” would mean. There’s so many people, looking like a herd of demonic hybrid shadows in the headlights. I reach out for Niall’s hand and find it. He locks his fingers with mine and repeats his plea. “Geoff, we didn’t know there was a party. We want to go home.”

The way he says home makes it seem as if we were a married couple in a suburban bungalow. But I like it. Why the fuck do I like it?

"Sorry, Mr Mitchell.", Geoff shrugs. "I’ve been ordered to take you here. And as much as I’d like to do you the favor and keep you safe from Mr Styles’ party, because I know how these usually end, he told me to take you here. He said you’d say no, but he told me to."

"What about now?", Niall asks, pulling his purse out of his pocket and offering Geoff a hand full of fifty dollar notes. "Huh?"

"Sorry.", Geoff says. "I can’t accept that."

He stops on the parking lot in front of the car. I keep my eyes glued to the people and only just now I realise what’s so wrong and scary about them. They’re wearing masks.

"But-", Niall protets and I can feel his body tense in anger next to me. "I’m not gonna get out of the car. Mor- Marla, you won’t get out either, you hear me?"

It sounds so stupid to hear him call me by my fake name. But of course I nod. I don’t want to get out either. These people scare me. The masks look creepy. They’re either completely white and expressionless or black with odd looking red ornaments.

"I’m afraid my boss is gonna make you.", Geoff sighs. He’s a mountain of a man but he obeys Harry. A funny example of the power stubborn young men with pretty faces have over even those among us who seem strong-minded.

"What?", Niall asks. That’s when the door on his side of the limousine’s being pulled open and a tall, skinny man in a white mask climbs in, closing it behind him. He sits down on the bench next to us, spreading his long legs.

Harry. I hold my breath as his greedy eyes wander over my barely clothed body, before he locks them with Niall’s, nods and pushes the mask up to his forehead so we can see his face.

"Welcome to the party!", he yells with a much too broad smile and I wonder how many pills he has swallowed, how many drink he’s gulped down already.

"This is not what I signed up for.", Niall grunts. "And your chauffeur’s not taking us home. Harry, we’re not going to your party."

Harry sucks the spit in his mouth through his teeth to the back of his throat, folding his hands in his lap. “Geoffrey.”, he says without turning around to the driver who’s listening in the front, “I want you to leave.”

"But this is my car.", Geoff complains.

"I pay you. You can get back in when we get out.", Harry says in the tone of a mother who told her children to patiently wait for christmas instead of begging to get the damn toy now. Geoff sighs and gets out, slamming the door. I watch him walk off with his head hanging low.

It happens within a split second. Niall literally jumps forward, grabbing Harry by the collar of his white shirt, clenching his other fist and raising it ready to slam it right into his unmasked face.

"What the fuck do you think you’re doing?", he snarls. I’m once again shocked by how quick Niall can go from absolutely calm and maybe just slightly worried to the epitome of pure aggression, driven by the anger of hundred drunk irishmen after a lost Derby match. That comparision may makes it seem cute, but it’s not. It’s scary as hell. I claw my nails into the leather seat and say: "Niall", as if the sound of his own name could calm him now, but I know he’s too mad at Harry to listen to me right now. I can’t see his face but I know it’s red, eyes wide, teeth gnashing.

Harry raises his arms in resignedness. “Bro”, he says and I can tell this asshole’s having a hard time not to smile. I feel insulted. He doesn’t take Niall seriously and that fucking upsets me.

The music in his house seems to get louder. I wonder who took over his stereo. Maybe he even hired a DJ. Seems likely. Why am I, despite it all, tempted to go in and check? I miss London’s clubs. Where I could be anonymous. It seems as if the more the luxury of being with Niall became a normal part of my life, anonymity itself has become a luxury we can’t afford anymore.

Plus, all the names I made up to keep touchy strangers distant were a million times better than Marla fucking Singer. This fucking film. Fight Club. One of those flicks that fuck with your head. I’ve never been a fan of plot twists. And I still haven’t figured out why Niall chose a name like Brent Mitchell instead of jumping on the bandwagon and calling himself Tyler Durden.

"Bro?", Niall repeats. "Are you fucking serious?" His knuckles are white, his fist still hovering over Harry’s face, but that fucking bastard doesn’t seem to care at all.

"Niall, put your hand down, come on. It’s a masquerade ball, see?" Harry points at the mask on his head. "Nobody will know it’s you. Nobody will know it’s your chick. Nobody knows her anyway. Chill."

"Fuck you, Harry. Fuck you.", Niall shouts. He’s shaking. He’s so angry. "You lied to me."

"Yes, I did.", Harry says with a shrug.

"How am I gonna trust you with those other issues, huh? How can I believe you won’t lie to me about other things, too ? How can I fucking trust you!" Niall keeps shouting and I reach out to stroke his back, trying to calm him a little, but I can’t touch him. There’s just something about him when he’s so mad, something so daunting it doesn’t matter how often we kissed, it disturbs me.

"Bro, there’s a big difference between not telling you our private party isn’t exactly private and telling the world your big dirty secret. I’m not gonna do that. You can trust me.", Harry says, finally a little more serious. "Look, in all those years of getting wasted, all those years on drugs, don’t you think I wished for someone like her?"

He points at me and I feel exposed as to why the hell he’s pulling me into the damn black hole this fucking discussion is. Why is it about me again now? What big dirty secret?

Niall just exhales on Harry’s face.

"Listen, I’m jealous as fuck. Despite it all. I wish I could love. I wish someone loved me like you love that girl." Harry’s so quiet now, his words make me feel weird. "Calm the fuck down man, your anxiety’s gonna get you to an asylum, too. We’ve got masks. I just want you to have a good time."

"Do I look like I’m having a good time?", Niall hisses. "Do. I. Look. Like. I’m. Enjoying. Myself?"

"Well I don’t know about your idea of fun, but-", Harry begins, but then realises his sarcasm doesn’t help at all. "Niall, come on. I’ve brought you masks. I even brought you a new shirt. Man, you mean so much to me. Do you know how happy I am to have you back?"

"You don’t have me back.", Niall snarls. "I’m too far gone, for fuck’s sake."

I bite my lip, feeling my stomach turn. I feel like I’m not supposed to listen, to supposed to witness this moment between these men in the suddenly so small limousine. I feel like I’m watching something very private, something I shouldn’t remember as soon as it ends. I melancholically think back to the days on which I had no sense of empathy at all.

"At least take a look around. There’s so many people there, nobody will pay attention to you. The music is ace, a friend of mine’s being the DJ tonight. There’s so many cool people and hot chicks and the best part is, we’re all wearing these masks. Who takes it off gets kicked out.", Harry explains, Niall’s hand still on his collar. "Come on, Bro. Broooo."

Niall losens his grip and inhales deeply.

"Come on Niall.", I hear myself say before I realise what I’m doing. "It’ll be fun."

"See! She wants to go! Now how can you still say no? Listen, I’ll let you go. If you really don’t want to party with me, I’ll tell Geoff to take you back to wherever you get all domestic and shit with your girl.", Harry says. "But let’s revive the old days."

"Harry, the old days are the old days for a good reason.", Niall responses.

"Yeah, I can see how hard you’re trying to smother the past. But this is different. We’ll have drinks. I have weed. I have coke. I have all kinds of other stuff." Harry turns to me. "And Fefe’s there, too! You liked her, didn’t you?"

Well, until she acted all psychic, I did. I shrug and say: “Come on, Niall.”

I guess it feels right because I know giving in to him and letting him take me back to the white prison in the nowhere of the city of angels would be wrong. I don’t want to give him too much control. I don’t want him to get used to the effect his anger has on people. And I can hear one of my old favorite songs blasting in Harry’s house.

"Niall, you hear her. She wants to party. You’re such a party animal, aren’t you, Morgan?", Harry asks, winking at me. I hate the way he says my name. I fucking hate it. But his smile makes me smile, too. Yes. I really want to party. The day in Hollywood put me in a great, hyper mood. I want to party.

Niall lets go of Harry, hissing: “Pull yourself together. Don’t fucking look at her like that, you horny little shit.”

Harry just giggles and raises his eyebrows. “Me?”

"Yes, you.", Niall growls, ripping the masks Harry brought for us from his hand. "Morgan, what colour do you want? Black or white?"

"Black.", I choose.

"Pure white and impure black.", Harry comments, throwing a black shirt he brought at Niall.

"Black seems more like Niall, huh?", I ask, feeling a little awkward interacting with Harry.

"Um, yeah.", he hestitantly agrees, looking at Niall, not at me. I feel stupid for having said anything to him, even though if I don’t really know why. It’s just like he’s making fun of me right now.

"Put this on.", he tells Niall, pointing at the shirt. "Do you have anything else to wear?"

I got distracted by the view of Niall taking his shirt off, but then I remember the bags on the free bench. All the pretty things Niall bought me today. “I have a few new clothes and lingerie.”, I quietly say, still awed by the effect Niall’s body has on me. I want him so bad, all the time.

"Lingerie.", Harry repeats in a low voice, licking his lips extra seductively. He’s just kidding, but it makes me a little uncomfortable. I’m glad Niall didn’t see it. "That would be nice. Just a mask and some skimpy lacy knickers."

"Harold, shut the fuck up or I’ll smash yer damn face.", Niall grumbles.

Harry chuckles at his old nickname and nods at me. “Put on one of these dresses. I don’t want my guests to lose their mind over your body.”

I wonder if this is supposed to be a compliment or a blunt attempt to flirt with me right in front of Niall for the thrill of it. I just roll my eyes and grab the bag we left Kitson with. I didn’t recognise myself anymore and I should have gotten used to that feeling of being surprised by myself, but how much exactly I enjoyed shopping at that store, with all the pretty casual clothes, cute dresses and nice jeans still left me feeling like I was betraying my true self. But what even was my true self anymore? I pull out wide cut, silky dress. The label says the colour is called “champagne peach”, what a silly name, but it really looks like something between champagne white and peachy pink. It’s been ages since I last wore such bright, spring like girly dresses.

I attempt to pull my shirt over my head when Niall clears his throat to stop me. “Harry, I don’t want you to watch her.”

"Dude, I watched you fuck her like an animal on my table.", Harry sighs.

"That’s a different thing.", Niall grumbles.

"No, it’s not.", Harry responds, but still turns away and covers his face with his big palms.

Niall keeps his eyes on me, smiling as I even take off my bra because the straps would show and I don’t like that. He shakes his head as if he disapproved but then reaches out to trace my lips with his thumb, whispering “Stay by my side tonight, babe”. And I nod because at his side’s the only place I want to be anyway.

"I can’t believe I’m doing this.", he mumbles. I see something close to fear in his eyes and once I’ve pulled the dress over my body and toss my shorts into the Kitson bag, I lean forward and kiss him. "It’s all good, babe.", I say, imitating the patronizing tone in his voice whenever he talks to me. He replies with a weak smile and a nod. I just hope he doesn’t only do it because of the drugs. But that would be as much of a silly hope as wishing my father would come back. Seems as if all men in my life are unable to fulfill this one dream of mine: Being whole, being pure, despite it all, despite it all.

"You ready?", Harry asks and uncovers his face, whistling through his teeth as his green eyes scan me. "Hot."

"Harry.", Niall snarls. "I’m serious. I’m gonna be beating you up by the end of that night."

"Niall."

"No, let him.", Harry interrupts me. "I’d love to get in a proper fight with you, Horan. Been too long since we did this."

"Perfect. Let’s go." Niall opens is arms, inviting Harry. I feel my stomach turn another time, but how are they gonna fight in the back of that limousine anyway?

Harry just laughs and shakes his head. “Not now. Let’s shoot a little magic potion in our veins first, shall we?”

He opens the door, pulls down the mask and swiftly climbs out of the car.

Niall puts on his white mask, turning into the scary cliché killer he often reminds me of anyway, helping me to put mine on, too. “Stay with me.”, he repeats, grabbing my wrist and helping me out of the car.

The air still smells of rain. I’m a little sad I can’t hear the ocean over the loud music. Harry’s waving at us, wanting us to follow him to the house.

"This feels a lot like one of these fucked up frat partys.", I yell into Niall’s ear. He nods.

"I’m used to that kind of party, though.", he replies.

The image of him in the middle of an orgy on coke, covered in the sweet sweat of a dozen barely clothed women who want nothing but to be the first to get fucked by him is an exciting, but unsettling thought. I don’t other women to touch, let alone think of touching him. I don’t know when exactly I got so jealous and possessive of him. I just know that this is a part of his past. And if there’s anyone in the world who wishes the past wouldn’t matter, it’s me.

But as we enter the villa, diving into the vibrant violet flashing lights, walking on the bass, I feel taken back to my first nights out in the filthiest clubs down in London, when I wanted nothing but to wear a mask, too, hiding my face from the strangers because I was so scared they could not only see through, but who I was in my eyes and I know that the past matters. In the thick smoke, guided by a shadow the only man I ever really loved doesn’t trust half as much as he says, everything is clear to me. So crystal clear, like the stars on the horizon over the ocean I floated in the night before, like the blue of Niall’s eyes. So fucking clear.

"Babe, what’s wrong?", Niall shouts.

I close my eyes and shiver. I didn’t even notice I stopped walking.

"Nothing.", I say. I was just taken away by how much my life had changed. And that this was my life now. By his side, in the middle of a fucking mess. So different from what I thought it would ever be. And I don’t know why, but the moment I start walking again, straight to the living room where the music comes from, I wonder what my mother would say if she saw me now.

__________________________________________

__________________________________________

__________________________________________

Drink, drink, emptied another glass. The shots burn, but not as much as their eyes behind the masks. The coke goes straight to his brain. Her plea to stop right to his heart. He spits on the floor and leans back, pulling her against his chest. This is where she’s supposed to me. That’s her place. This is where she belongs. And it seems as if this is where he belongs. Even though it hurts his head to think of anything longer ago than two beats of the drum on the track that’s blasting through his body from the drunk DJ’s deck, he remembers all the fucked up partys he went to. In London and all around the world. Dragged into the business by determination, greed and undeniable talent, passion and the will to show the world that he was the best, at whatever, he fell into the damn purgatory of partying, drinking, letting go of everything that made a man a respectable member of society at young age.

He didn’t fuck much at One Direction’s prime. As weird as it seemed to him considering how many girls would have killed their familie to spend a night with his cock up their ass, he always tried hard to the image of the humble, brave hearted, always happy man he had shaped from the beginning on. Everybody’s darling, he didn’t want to use someone. He didn’t want to do with “without love”, not knowing what love even was. How dangerous, how fucking scary, how reckless, cruel, painful, destructive and totally fucking crazy was. Human sunshine Niall Horan never knew that kind of love back in the days of telling masses how much he loved them. It started when it ended. The lovely Niall Horan. Now on the leather couch of pop mogul Harry Styles, wasted to the bone, with this girl in his arm, this goddamn girl he loves so much he ditched the last bit of conscience in his rotten soul, with fairy dust in his nose. Throwing his heavy head back, inhaling a bit of the smoke that emerges from his seatmate’s bong, making mooneyes at death.

And death is a pretty girl that looks way too much like Morgan.

The fucking house is a maze, a brothel, a goddamn graveyard of demons in masks. They offer him pills, they offer him coke, they offer him drinks, they offer him kisses and worse favors, they offer him themselves, their souls and their bodies, but Niall is too full with darkness to accept and too taken by the worst demon of them all, the one whose wrist he won’t ever let go, the one he would die for. Kill for. Do whatever it takes for. Whatever it takes to make his greed feel like greed again because it recently started to feel like trying to swim against the tides, and he’s losing. Drowning. He wants to take his power back, he wants to be the storm, but the sun is nothing against the night, and everyone who says there’s always a light in the dark clearly never met a couple like him and Morgan.

But despite all that, he’s happy. Happier than he ever was, and it’s strange, it’s scary, because his hapiness is a fragile thing, balancing on a thin rope above a raging fire, but when she kisses him, it even dances. He’s just afraid they’ll cut the rope and let him fall. Because in the proper meaning of the word, it’s all his fault.

Lies develope a life of their own in time. The proof puts her sweet, plump lips on his neck and sucks, leaving a hickey. Marking him like he marks her.

"My baby", he says, his hot breath caught between the mask and his sweaty skin. He chuckles and grabs her face, forcing his lips through the hole in the plastic again to press them on hers another time. "My baby."

______________________________________________

______________________________________________

______________________________________________

I don’t know whether I like this kind of party better than the anonymous gatherings of strangers in all kinds of clubs, but I’m enjoying the obscure masquerade ball in Harry’s house. I’ve inhaled too much smoke probably, drank one or two shots I should’ve spared, but it’s all good. Niall’s holding my hand, I drag him to where some people dance, in the middle of the living room basically.

"Babe, do we have to?", he complains. He would’ve prefered to stay on the couch, but I felt responsible to keep him away from the drugs for a while. Also I need to move. And I need him closer, all over me with his hands. It’s so warm. My dress sticks to my body, I bump into another girl who wears the same black mask as me and see her smile underneath. No negative energy in the whole house. I’ve caught myself looking around for Fefe a few times and I’ve come to the conclusion she might be wearing a wig as well. There’s a girl with short black hair that keeps watching me. I wink at her as I pull Niall against me and begin to move like I always do in London.

He knows this game well. I remember the night I escaped from him and he came after me. The night after the day he locked me up. And I thought this was crazy. But it’s in no way comparable to this. Everything just seems to get worse. Or better. I don’t know. A part of me loves the extent of the catastrophe my and Niall’s love is becoming. Well, it’s always been a catastrophe. Niall throws his head back and begins to move as well. He’s having fun. I’m glad the party turned out to be good. The masks really help. It gives me a feeling of power I really enjoy. Nobody knows who I am. What I’m like. Nobody knows who Niall is. What he’s like. Maybe some of the people around think we only just met. Maybe some of them think we’re a married. I don’t care. I couldn’t fucking care less.

The bass is pounding through my body, I wrap my arms around Niall and grind on him, he laughs and grabs my ass.

"Here’s another one!", I hear a familar voice practically screaming into my ear in the moment I lean forward to kiss Niall.

"Harry.", Niall complains.

"Yeah, yeah, ‘ye olde cockblock Styles, I know, but here’s something you just need to try."

Harry hands me a thin, small glass filled with a bright pink liquid, the same for Niall.

"What’s that?", Niall asks.

"Good stuff.", Harry says. I realise there’s one thing Harry Styles is not good at. And that’s dancing. I put the glass on my lips but Niall grabs my wrist. "Wait."

"Is that safe?", Niall asks.

"Bro, like you care.", Harry laughs. "Like you care if anything’s safe."

"I care about her safety.", Niall shouts and looks at me, then back to Harry. "I don’t need her to pass out. We’ve talked about this."

"But you-"

"Yeah, I know what I did, but not tonight, I don’t want this. I want her to have fun."

"I’m having fun!", I say. "I’m having a lot of fun!"

Niall shows me his teeth through the smale hole in the mask. I wanna drink that damn stuff already. Harry’s drinking it too, literally pouring it down his by today tattooed throat.

"It’s alright if she drinks one. Just let her taste it, for fuck’s sake, let her free."

"Harry, I’m granting her the most freedom possible.", Niall snarls.

"I’m still here!", I shout. "I can here you. Could you stop talking about me in third person and let go of my fucking hand?"

Niall rolls his eyes and losens his grip. I don’t hestitate to gulp down the pink liquid. It tastes amazing. Niall shrugs and does it, too. Harry pats my back for which he earns a strict look from two big blue eyes and he leaves us again.

"Don’t drink any more for tonight, okay babe?", Niall says into my ear.

"What if I want to?", I ask. "You’ve been doing coke and I stopped counting your joints at six. You can’t tell me what to do and what not."

"Yes, I can.", Niall responds.

We’re in the middle of the improvised dancefloor, between sweaty, warm, barely clothed bodies, masked strangers with chemicals in their veins and greed in their eyes around us and Niall acts the same way as usual. Overprotective, possesive and scary, except that the alcohol sounds in his voice and the consumption of weed reflects in his eyes.

"Can we argue later?", I ask him. "You said you wanted me to have fun."

"That’s right, baby. I’m sorry."

We dance to whatever song Harry’s friend plays. Harry himself joins us again, for another round of pink shots and even though Niall protests, I pour it down.

There’s many stages of being drunk, from tipsy to absolutely wasted. I’m on that stage where suddenly everything around you is twice as loud, twice as colourful, twice as intense, you can see clear, feeling like a sniper, but you know your shot would fail so you just stand there or move along with the crowd. Niall’s got control of my body even now, but I like it.

After a while, he leads me back to the couch and I climb his lap, where I feel most comfortable. We share a blunt and talk to people I know I’ll never see again in my whole life.

"Dude, are you scottish or something? Your accent’s weird as fuck.", one of them says to Niall, who shakes his head and says: "No, I’m from Australia."

"Great man, great.", the stranger says and I realise he’s about as wasted as Niall.

Niall rocks back and forth with me on his lap and I wish we could go somewhere else, to one of the guest rooms most preferably, but I don’t want to leave a party that feels like it’s been set up for me only.

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

The house is an abandoned battlefiled of empty bottles, empty like my stomach. The rugs are soaked, there’s confetti everywhere. I didn’t even realise people threw some.

My entire body feels like I’ve been hollowed with a stump spoon, my head’s spinning. I feel sick. I’ve never been so drunk. Everything is blurry now. The sun’s rising right before the big window, above the beautiful, calm, dark blue ocean, but to me it’s just colours and way too bright light on the light blue morning sky. The party’s over.

People left their masks on the floor and I imagine they now walk around faceless. Me and Niall took ours off when the last people left, falling asleep as a bundle of sweaty flesh in redundant clothes on Harry’s couch, the owner on the other one, a bottle in his hands. I’m afraid to step on shards. I feel itchy. I drop my dress to the floor and walk to the window. Big steps. I almost fall. It’s so quiet. My ears still hurt from the loud music. There’s a song playing in my head. I haven’t heard it in ages and I have no idea why it’ stuck in my brain right now.

I put my hand on the cold glass, lean my forehead against it. Standing there in my underwear, I wish I could just throw up. Puke out all the alcohol in my stomach or cut my veins open and bleed it out, because I don’t want it inside of me anymore. It brings out the worst in me in that amount.

I’m so tired, I don’t know why I woke up. The nightmare I had probably. It was just horrible. I wonder how I can have such horrible dreams in the arms of the man that I love so fucking much, the extent of things I’d do for him is the only real nightmare considering what kind of person I was before I crossed paths with this mental idiot. Who lies to me. Who hides something from me. Who’s keeping a secret he doesn’t want me to fucking find out. What has he done?

He’s snoring. I run my fingers through my hair and wonder if I should look for the bathroom, shower. But I don’t trust my legs if it comes to the stairs. I’m too weak, too dizzy. And this damn song in my head is driving me insane.

"Seasons came and changed the time, when I grew up I called him mine. He would always laugh and say, remember when we used to play? Bang, bang, I shot you down.", I quietly sing, hoping I’ll get rid of it this way. I’ve hated how haunting this supposedly beautiful song sounds ever since I first heard it on Kill Bill. I shiver.

I step out of my dress and open the glass door to the garden. The pool looks so fucking inviting. I know you shouldn’t swim when drunk, but it doesn’t look deep. The water. It looks cool and soothing. Right when I want to step out, I hear a phone vibrating.

It’s not Niall’s. I know he carries it in his pants, for our emergencies only. And it’s not Harry’s either. This one’s on the table next to him. The vibration is close. As I walk back to the couch and grab my purse with shaky fingers, I realise that it is mine.

But how is that possible? Nobody knows this cell phone’s number. Who the fuck is calling me?

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

She’s floating in the pool, limbs spread, sunkissed skin in ice blue water. The sky above is grey. It’s not gonna be a pretty day. The sun only rose to hide behind thick clouds. It’s going to rain again very soon.

He stumbles out of the house, jumping into the water right away, pulling on her leg to put her back on her feet. He was so scared when he saw it. So scared. So scared this was the worst imaginable thing, the image that haunts him in his darkest nightmares coming to life on a foggy morning in the hills of Los Angeles. But her heart is beating, so fast, and she smiles as he pulls her against his chest, against his soaked shirt, kissing her so hard he knows he hurts her. But every physical pain is endurable compared to what he feared to go through mentally a few seconds before he realised she was fine. Harry followed him, screaming her name. Her real name. Niall will punch him later. It’s overdue. For way too long.

He’s still drunk, he’s angry. His relief turns into madness. “Why did you do this?”, he asks, shaking her. “You’re not supposed to leave!”

"I was just going for a swim!", she giggles. Something about her face worries him. Her eyes are still red and swollen. Something about her smile alarms him. He feels like he caught her and she just pretends right now.

"Going for a swim. You’re still drunk. I’m still drunk. Do you want me to help you throw up?", Niall asks, putting his fingers in her throat.

"Not in my motherfucking pool!", Harry squeals at its border, waving his arms. "Not in the pool! Come on guys! Don’t puke in my pool!"

"Oh, yeah.", Niall mumbles. This wasn’t a good idea. He’s still too wasted. And he regrets it. Morgan rubs her face against his chest and giggles. He needs to put her to bed again, she needs more sleep than the hour she had with him on the couch.

"You could have drowned.", Niall snarls as he tries to pull her to the ladder. God knows how he’s gonna climb that in his current condition. "Don’t ever do that again. Why did you do that in first line, huh? Damn, baby, I was so worried. I had the worst ideas. You know what goes on in my head!"

"Yeah, you’re crazy.", she says with a smile and giggles again.

"Crazy about you.", he chuckles and kisses her forehead. "Ha-Harold! Hey. Help us, won’t you?"

Together, they pull Morgan out of the pool. Her underwear is soaked, the parts of her body he loves to touch the most clearly visible. Harry stares and he knows it. Morgan is shaking. She turns around to look at the ocean and stretches, her muscles shine through her skin. She’s so beautiful. He feels the painful sting of love in his chest once again and wraps his arms around her from behind.

Harry wraps an old towel from one of the sunbeds around their shoulders. They listen to the seagulls and the waves. The silence of mornings at the coast is better than any kind of drug. It fills you up completely, yet hollows you. You can tell most people are still asleep. The salty wind makes his skin itch. She scratches hers, too.

He wishes he wasn’t so damn drunk. Wishes he wasn’t so angry. He could enjoy this moment under other circumstances, but he’s raging inside. She did it again. She misbehaved. Didn’t follow the rules he never told her about, but set up in his head a long time ago. She showed this damn behaviour that he doesn’t approve of at all. The kind of behaviour he is afraid of. And yes, it was just the garden. But she could’ve ran away. She could have gotten away from him and ruin everything. And he can’t risk that any longer. He knows what to do once they get back home. He’s got no other choice. She’s getting too close, closer each time she distances herself from him.

And then, she asks.

"Niall?" Her voice is quiet. She doesn’t want Harry to hear.

"Hm, what babe?"

"Did you give her my number? If so, thank you. You’re an angel, really.", she whispers, turning around to kiss him, but he turns his head. He didn’t give anyone the number of the phone he picked for her.

________________________________________

________________________________________

________________________________________

"What?", he asks. Is he playing with me now? I smile again, even if I don’t really want to because I know that I look stupid, but he just made me happy with this attempt to cheer me up and make me feel a little less like a hostage.

"My mum.", I explain. "She called me."

He lets go of me immediately, stumbling back. I turn around so quick I hear my bones crack. His face is chalk white, his eyes seem to pop out of his skull. I look at Harry, whose jaw dropped, too. What have I done wrong? What have I said? The lump in my stomach pulsates like a living tumor. I feel sicker than ever. I really want to throw up.

"This is impossible, Morgan.", Niall says, stretching out his hand. "Give me your phone."

"Niall, what are you talking about? How’s that impossible? You didn’t give her my number?"

"No, I sure as hell didn’t.", Niall snorts. "Give me your phone."

"It’s in Harry’s living room, I put it back there.", I explain.

"Get it for me, Harry.", Niall orders and Harry, as expected, obeys. Niall steps forward, grabbing me by my shoulders. "What did she say?"

"The usual. We haven’t talked in a long time and she just wanted to check on me. She asked about you, too."

"She did-" Niall covers his mouth with his hand, squeezing his face, pulling on his lip. He’s a nervous wreck and I can’t fucking understand why. He looks… scared. "She asked about me?" His voice cracks.

"Ni, come here, I got it.", Harry yells and Niall runs towards him. I follow in slow, careful steps. I don’t wanna fall into the damn pool. The men look at the phone screen, then at me.

"Morgan.", Niall says, walking back to me. I can tell there’s a war behind his eyes. What the fuck is going on? "What did she say?”

"I told you, Niall, the usual. She just wanted to make sure I was okay. Wanted to know about you. Asked about my ex as usual, too.", I repeat, getting real fucking scared now, too. "And I-"

"D-D-Dylan?", Niall asks.

"Yes."

"Fuck, Morgan, that’s impossible.", he says. And now he smiles. The creepiest fucking psychotic smile I’ve ever seen on him or another person. I literally shiver from looking at it. In addition to the ironic mask of insanity, he laughs.

"Niall, hey!", Harry says, noticing that his friend seems to lose his mind right in front of us. In boxershorts and a way too large shirt that makes him look even skinnier, Niall stands by the pool, in the grey morning light, laughing, shaking his head, pulling his hair.

"I knew it. I fucking knew it.", he repeats, over and over again.

"Niall, what the fuck is going on?", I scream. I’m fed up with being quiet.

He stops laughing and turns to me and I know he regrets everything he says, but he’s too drunk and still too stoned to hold himself back. “Morgan, I don’t know what the fucking fuck is going on either! I don’t fucking know! You always ask me ‘Niall, what’s happening’, ‘Niall, why do you lie to me’, ‘Niall, what are you doing?’, and I used to believe I knew the answer to this but turns out I don’t! I don’t fucking know!”

"But what-", I shout, feeling my knees get weaker and weaker, "what on earth, Niall, has this to do with my mother calling me?"

"Your mother-", Niall says, inhaling deeply before he continues, and I can hear Harry calling his name as if he tried to stop him,- "is dead, Morgan! Your mother can’t have called you because she is fucking dead."


	20. Ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If they don't know your name, do they know you at all?

"What?" My throat is dry, I feel like I’ve been punched in the guts. I look at Niall, whose face is pale white, at Harry, who doesn’t even blink. The stuffy air around us is still. No sound but the beat of my racing heart, nothing but the emptiness in my pained chest. "What?"

"You heard me.", Niall says, sounding like a hunter approaching his prey. Careful, but daunting. "Your mother is dead."

"This is impossible.", I respond, using the same words he introduced the dark rendition with before. "When did she die? Why didn’t you tell me? What? No, Niall. I talked to her. I talked to her half an hour ago, I heard her voice, this is absolutely ridiculous. Why are you lying to me? Who did I talk to? Tell me! Who did I talk to!"

_______________________________________________

_______________________________________________

_______________________________________________

She’s screaming now, her voice cracks. He takes a step forward. He’s unable to suppress the urge to hug her. He just wants her to stay calm and in control, but she’s raising her arms, points at him like her finger’s the barrell of a gun and the only way he can escape the field of fire is by crashing right into the opponent. He grabs her and pulls her against him, letting her punch him, letting her scream on and cry.

"Am I going crazy?", she sobs. "Am I losing my mind?"

"No baby, no. Shhh.", he says, looking at Harry, the silent witness of the breakdown Niall could have avoided.

He fucked up. He fucked up completely. He’ll lose her. He should have never taken her home that night back in London. She should have stayed away from him. He knew he’d ruin it all sooner or later. He was not to trust. And now she was so close to the damn edge he’s been trying to keep her away from for so long.

"Niall, do you want me to call someone?", Harry asks. "Help? An ambulance?"

"The fuck do I want! An ambulance! For fuck’s sake, Harry, how fucking stupid are you?", Niall shouts back. "Do not call anyone! Nobody can help us anyway. She needs to be taken care of. By me. She needs to be safe."

"Let! Go! Of! Me!", she protests, trying to push him away. She’s furious and the only way he can keep her under control is pressed against his body with her head on his chest. He’s so afraid she’ll hurt herself, or him, but he can’t let her go.

"Niall!", Harry calls in a warning tone.

"Shut up!", Niall shouts. "Get back in the house! Call Geoff. I’m taking her home."

"There’s absolutely no way I’m letting you go back with her in that state.", Harry insists. "I’m sorry, bro, I’m not gonna do that."

"I told you I’ll beat the livin shit out of ya, Styles!", Niall snorts as Morgan keeps trying to make him let go of her. She bites his arm, scratches him and it hurts like crazy but he can stand it, he has to.

"You can beat me up Niall, but I’m not gonna let you go though.", Harry responds and crosses the distance between him and the fighting couple with a few large steps. Without any further words, he grabs Morgan’s forearms and yanks them behind her back so she’s forced to stop hitting Niall. He’s strong, much taller than her, and as soon as his grip is tight and safe, Niall lets go and grabs her thighs instead.

She stops protesting as she realises what’s going on but then proceeds to kick and turn in their arms. It’s useless. They lift her.

"Stop!", Niall hisses. "Stop moving, for fuck’s sake Morgan, you’re gonna hurt yourself! And me! We’re putting you back to bed, so stop moving!"

"Let go of me!", she repeats, rolling to the side in Harry’s arms, but he’s got her. "LET GO!"

"Hold still now, Morgan, fuck!", he barks and Niall is surprised at how strict he can be, too.

"We’re not going to hurt you!", he quickly adds to ease his friend.

"Please! Put me down! What the fuck are you- please!", she screams, but they don’t listen to her. They carry her back to the house and up the stairs. It’s a struggle, she’s stronger than she looks and Niall’s last bit of conscience threatens to kill him for hurting and forcing her like that, but she’s unpredictable in her current state and he doesn’t want her to get hurt. She shouts things he never wanted to hear from her mouth.

The shock of seeing her in the pool is still stuck in his weak bones. He craves sleep and silence. He craves the content look on her face as she slumbers, the beautiful sight that made him fall even deeper in love with her that night at her flat.

"Where’s the guest room?", Niall asks as soon as they’re on the upper floor.

"We’re taking her to my bedroom, it doesn’t matter.", Harry says. Niall rolls his eyes but agrees. It has to happen quick. She’s still fighting, but not as much anymore.

"Niall, please, I can walk on my own, what the fuck is this, please let me down!", she begs and it’s so hard to resist her plea, but he has to. It’s for her own good after all. She doesn’t even notice how close to a total breakdown she is again. He knows the signs by now. He knows them from himself as well. He’ll never forget the evening he saw her scars. He doesn’t want them to bleed ever again.

They stumble into the bedroom and put her on Harry’s big bed.

The view from the room is amazing. Just water. The ocean looks so beautiful on this muggy morning.

As soon as she’s on the matress, Niall climbs on top of her. The sexual character of this action is subliminally amusing, but his primary anger drowns every other emotion. He puts his knees on her arms to keep her from moving any more and looks her straight into her glassy eyes. It hurts so bad to see her cry. She’s so confused. He never wanted her to feel this way.

"Niall, I’m scared.", she whimpers. "Please get off of me, please. I’m so scared."

"Baby, I know. You’re gonna feel better soon, baby, I promise. I’ll do anything to make this up to you, I swear."

"Who did I talk to! Is this all just a play? Why do you say that my mother is dead? Niall, what happened to her! What have you done!"

He swallows hard and it feels like his saliva is lava. He wishes he could tell her. But then he’d lose her completely. And there’s a little bit of crazy hope left in his insane heart that makes him believe there’s still a chance to make things right, to ease her, to turn around and find the happy end he never headed for before he knew her.

And if he has to hurt her to get there, he will. This is what differs him from a sane man. This is what his ego makes him do. He hurts her now so she won’t ever have to suffer later.

"Harry!", he shouts, giving his old friend a sign only he will understand. He nods and leaves the room only to return less than a minute, a minute of Morgan crying like an anxious child and Niall desperately trying to keep her down, keep her calm and not hurt her. Then, Harry returns with a white tissue in his hands.

The look in Morgan’s face tells that she knows exactly what’s going to happen to her.

"No! No! Fuck! What’s going on! Fuck, Niall, Ni, babe, please, don’t do this to me, I lo-"

He puts the chloroform soaked tissue on her mouth before she speaks the words he’d kill to hear her say.

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

"She looks weak and sick. If she’s inhaled too much, she might not wake up any time soon.", I hear a familar, beautiful voice. It’s a woman. It feels like my lids are glued to my eyeballs. I can’t open them. It feels like a sleep paralysis. Except that the heavy weight on my chest is gone. In fact, I feel like it’s been ripped open. Like someone tore me into two with big branch shears and there’s a gaping, bloody cut between my ribs. Am I dreaming? It’s like I can see myself from up above, limbs spread out on the bed I’m in, strangely contorted, skin covered in cold sweat. I hear a melody in the back of my dizzy head. A fucking Guns ‘n Roses song. Who sung this to me? He did.

"Fuck. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have done that. I went too far. I’m… I can never make this up to her. I can’t ever expect her to forgive me!", his voice says. The sound makes the shattered heart under my torn skin swell. A big, red, throbbing lump that beats for the man whose voice is so desperate it hurts me.

"Will she remember?"

"It’s likely. Did she remember the last times?"

"I think she did. But not always. Not before we got here and I drugged her.

"I see."

"Is there a chance she now knows that-"

"I don’t think so."

"And you sensed it?"

"I knew it from the first time I saw you two on."

"You’re really psychic. Never believed in that shit. But now. Morgan. She changed everything."

"I know."

"I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to her."

"It’s okay, bro.", a third voice says and the sound of his name rushes through my body like an electric shock. I’m waking up. "Look, her eyelids flutter. She’s coming back. It’s all good."

"Morgan! Baby!" The matress dips and I know he’s next to me. I should be relieved to feel him this close, I should open my eyes and stretch out to wrap my arms around his neck, I should inhale his scent, but there’s a horrible stench stuck in my nose, it stings, and it makes me flinch and whimper. I don’t want to wake up, I don’t want to wake up. I’m scared. I want to turn away from him. He hurt me. He drugged me. Again. He fucking numbed me with chloroform. He put me into a chemical coma. Why did he do this to me? Again? I’m so fucking scared. I want to get up and get off this damn bed. I want to run, run far away. But I can’t move.

"Be careful.", the female voice says. I feel Niall’s warm breath hovering over my face.

“‘f course.”, he mutters. “Baby, can you hear me? Babe, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

I hear the third voice chuckle. Harry knows I’m not okay. Niall puts his hand on my cheek and I turn my head.

"Let go.", Fefe says. "Get off the bed. Leave the room. I want to talk to her."

"She’s my-", Niall begins, but then stops. He rolls off the bed.

"C’mon. She knows what she’s doing." Harry says.

"Don’t you dare-", Niall hisses through his teeth, but Harry shushes him.

"Trust me.", Fefe says in a calm tone. "For once in your goddamn life, trust me. I know more about you then you do. And I need you to trust me."

"Don’t tell her what I-"

"I won’t."

"C’mon, bro, it’s okay. Fefe’s a good one.", Harry whispers, before I hear footsteps on the floor and a pair of big hands closing the door.

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

If anyone would’ve asked her just a month ago, she would’ve chosen the second option. Of course. She wasn’t crazy. Unlike her patients. She was a reasonable middle aged woman, a honorable citizen, a working member of this society, trying hard to cling to her average life despite the daily confrontation with all kinds of absurd behaviour. The options were: Investigate privately, including the “ignoring” of laws and all kinds of danger simply because she feels sympathy towards the protagonist in this sick play, or calling the police.

Of course things have changed. Of course she wouldn’t call the police. Yet. And she knew it was wrong, she knew it was insane. “But who can blame me after all these years of working with people like him and her!”, she says to herself as she approaches the big house in Central London, wearing a black raincoat despite the unusual heat because it makes her feel anonymous.

She felt like a silly teenager googling the names of One Direction’s former members. Of course their adresses weren’t on the internet. She can imagine there’s still some obsessed twenty-five year old women chasing after,- what was his name,- Liam Payne. She decided he was the best looking in the band. She took a closer look at all the pictures of Niall she could find on the internet, too. She understood that there was something about the way he looked at the camera that, in case he looked at girls the same way, attracted them to him. It was quite shocking how he went from the angelic looking goofball of this band to the man on the most recent pictures. And those made it even easier to understand why a girl like Morgan would fall for him. Was she in love with him? Despite it all, Doctor Rossdale found herself dearly hoping that she was. For once in her life, she wanted Morgan to feel something pure and real. Even if it was for a man like him.

There were shadows beneath his eyes and a lunatic glimmer inside them. Stubbles on his cheek. And even if it were pictures only, Doctor Rossdale could practically smell the thick smoke that sticked to his dark clothes.

There was the picture of him and Morgan that made it on the newspapers’ cover. She looked at Morgan, her Morgan, with such fondness it shocked her. She traced the outlines of her two dimensional face on the screen, then felt bad about it and closed all tabs. She buried her face in her sweaty palms, letting her brain work, work, work, and then googled the band’s relatives instead. They had to have family, family far outside the spotlights, brothers, sisters or even mothers whose adresses were to find on the internet.

Of course she tried Liam’s last name first. If she had the chance to meet him, she’d take it. Maybe he’d feel about her the way the man in Morgan’s house felt. She giggled at the abstruse thought, but soon had to accept that none of Liam’s relatives were listed in the online adress lists she looked through. The same applied to Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles. She could visit the gallery of his sister’s husband, a famous english artist, but Gemma was a public person herself and Doctor Rossdale wasn’t too eager to go public with what she knew. She wouldn’t frequent any Horan family member. They sure as hell had a clue on what their most famous member’s been up to lately. Plus, most of them were dead or lived in Ireland. It was tragic. The only name associated to Niall that she stumbled across on her hour long research was Darragh Daly, one of his old friends supposedly, who taught PE and philosophy at one of London’s most highly esteemed middle schools. She looked at a picture of him, too. He was completely covered in tattos, even pierced and she wondered how on earth a man like him got a job at this school, but then shrugged it off because a heavily tattooed teacher was the least crazy thing she recently had to deal with.

Eventually, she found Waliyah Malik’s adress. Maybe she was lucky and she could give her not Zayn’s but Liam’s phone number. If she’d give her any of the boys’ numbers at all. She had to be smart. She wouldn’t be able to trick her like the housekeeper in Marylebone.

But she was determined.

"Here we go.", she says to herself before she pushes the doorbell button. Twenty seconds later, a raspy, calm voice answers through the speakers by the door. "Yeah? Who’s there?"

"My name is-" Why is she stuttering now? "Anna Willis, I’m writing for The Sun and-"

"No.", Waliyah replies. Doctor Rossdale can tell by the sound of her voice only that she’s a confident young woman. "No press. I’m not answering any questions about Perrie and-"

And all of sudden, she senses that the only way to get what she wants is to throw her damn plan over board and be honest.

"I’m not here because of Perrie, I’m here because I need your help."

"What is it?" Waliyah is persistent.

Doctor Rossdale looks around. Luckily, there’s no on there to hear what she says. “Miss Malik, you’re the only chance I have to save someone’s life.”

The connection crackles a little. “What?”, Waliyah asks. “Are you serious?”

"I want to get struck by lighting if I’m not.", Doctor Rossdale sighs. She’s sweating. Fucking menopause. "Please, Miss Malik."

Another ten seconds pass. Then, with a loud whir, the automatic door opens.

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

"Hey." She smiles at me and for once I’m glad it’s not Niall’s face I look at as I finally open my eyes. Fefe is beautiful. Even more than I remembered after that night we shared. She carefully strokes my cheek and I shiver. It feels so different to be touched by a girl. Exciting. And it reminds me of her lips on my body, on that table down in Harry’s living room. "How are you feeling?"

She asks as if she already knew the answer and given the fact that she’s got psychic abilities, she probably does. “I’m a little dizzy.”, I say. “And it stinks. My nostrils, the insides of my nostrils, they stink and burn. They used chloroform on me. I can’t believe they fucking anaesthetised me.”

Fefe nods. Does she sense how much it hurts? Emotionally? To wake up after the only person you trust and love drugged you again? To wake up with so much pain in your chest, so many questions in your aching head that you wish for nothing else but the old familar pain on your forearms to bleed out the fear and confusion?

I feel like a sick child. Fefe could be my mother. And care for me like mine barely ever did. My mother. “My mother.”

"Shhh, I know.", Fefe hushes me. "I know what Niall said."

I wonder why it’s okay that she knows our real names. Then again she probably would’ve found out anyway. She’s scaring me a little, but in a whole different way than Niall. I know why Fefe scares me. She’s obviously intimidating. What scares me about Niall is vague. Dark and hidden. And unpredictable.

"And is it true? Is my mother dead? Because that can’t be. I talked to her."

"I know.", Fefe just says. The sun’s setting outside. It’s beautiful. I’ve never been to a room with such a wonderful view before. But I can’t enjoy it right now. I can only see the golden light reflect in Fefe’s eyes. "I know you did, you said that to Niall. And I know it’s true."

"Why does he say that my mother is dead?"

"Morgan, Niall is in love with you. If Harry loved me only half as much as Niall loved you, I’d be the happiest girl in the world. He’d do anything for you. Anything to make you happy. And in your case, that means that he has to say things that aren’t true sometimes. Sometimes, he has to lie, or twist the truth a little.", Fefe explains.

"But I don’t want that. I want him to be honest with me."

"Then be honest with yourself first.", Fefe says. "I look at you and I see a beautiful, intelligent girl with one of the most complex and fascinating souls I’ve ever sensed in a person. But I also see a liar. And a violent child caught between your lungs as well." She traces the scars on my forearm with her soft fingertips and I shiver. "Violent against yourself. And in constant denial."

"I can’t tell him.", I say. My throat feels very tight all of sudden. "I don’t want to tell him that I love him, I just can’t. I never told anyone before."

Now, Fefe smiles. “Not even Dylan?”

I abruptly sit up, feeling like my heart’s gonna beat out of my chest. How does she know about Dylan? Sweat runs down my spine, I gasp for air. “How do you know about my ex boyfriend?”

Fefe’s cheeks turn soft pink. She puts her hand on my shoulder to make me lay down again. “I told you I can sense things. I heard the voices in your head, Morgan, they were saying his name the whole time through.”

"What do you mean? How?" I didn’t hear them. She must be lying to me. I wish she wasn’t I wish at least she’d be honest with me.

"Morgan, I want to ask you something. If you had to choose between the ugly, cold truth, the winter of reality, that’ll leave you lonely with nothing but a bloody knife in your hands or the illusion of an everlasting summer with the man you love and barely visible scars on your wrists, under his hands tightly wrapped around them, what would you choose?"

I look at her. The view gets blurry. I realise that salty tears fill my eyes. I would’ve chosen the first option. Thinking back to the nights by my window, watching over London, thinking I was fine with the tristesse, the first option seems to be the perfect choice. But not anymore.

"I’d choose Niall.", I hear myself saying before my voice cracks and I burst into tears.

But he lies to you! He drugs you! He hurts you! It’s wrong!, the voices in my head shout.

Fefe nods and then, she hugs me. Unlike anyone ever hugged me before. Her body against mine feels good and I cry on her shoulder. It’s a sweet relief and I’m thankful she’s there.

"But…", I sob, "You know so much more than me, don’t you? I can’t live like this."

"You know just as much as I do.", Fefe says.

"What do you mean? No! This can’t be.", I protest and tilt back.

"You’ll understand. And you’ll be okay with it. You’re stronger than you ever were. I just realised that. You’d choose Niall. You chose Niall. And he chose you. And you can get through this."

"Even if I… find out what he’s hiding from me?", I ask.

"Even then.", Fefe says.

But I’m impatient. “But you know what he doesn’t want me to find out about, right? You know what he doesn’t want me to know!”

Fefe gets up from the bed and walks to the window. She looks at the ocean, then back at me.

"Morgan, like I said. You know just as much as me."

"I don’t understand!", I cry.

"It’s not that Niall doesn’t want you to find out. He doesn’t want you to remember."

"What?"

That’s when it knocks on the door. “Are you okay in there?” It’s him.

"Fefe, what do you mean?", I hiss. My stomach turns, my blood is boiling. So much noise in my head, it’s too loud, too loud.

"Morgan, it’s not the right time now. I told you all that you need to know for now. And please remember what I said about Niall. He loves you. Please don’t ever forget that."

"Can we come in?", Niall asks.

"Or are you two makin’ out again?", Harry adds.

"For fuck’s sake, Harry!"

"Ouch!"

"That was just the appetizer, you fuckin’ piece of shit.", Niall grumbles. But he’s not being serious. Fefe giggles. "Boys.", she sighs and rolls her eyes. "We’re fine, come in!"

______________________________________________

______________________________________________

______________________________________________

"So, what is it?"

Francis Rossdale thinks back to the day she met Simon Cowell in the supermarket. It was long ago and she tried to forget about it because the butterflies being so close to a public person had given her made her feel ashamed. But now that Zayn Malik, taller than she’d imagined and undeniably goodlooking, walks into the neat living room of his younger sister, looking straight down at her and making her stand up as if she was greeting a royal, she feels exactly the same.

"Hello.", she says in a quiet voice that sounds nothing like the confident, trustworthy therapist she usually has to be. But for now, she’s a friend. A detective. Maybe a lawyer. Zayn’s handshake is firm and dry. He raises his brows and scratches his stubbly chin, scanning Doctor Rossdale’s face, making her feel twenty years younger in a blink.

"Hello.", he answers and finally takes his dark eyes off of her to hug his sister. "So, what is it? Why would you call me in the middle of a vernissage?"

"This is Francis Rossdale.", Waliyah explains before the doctor can say anything. "She’s working at a mental institution."

"You can call me Francis.", Doctor Rossdale adds. It’s been years since she last offered someone to call her by her first name.

"So?" Zayn doesn’t seem to be too fond of the strange visitor. Doctor Rossdale can imagine why. He seems to be just as sick of the never ending aftershock of One Direction and probably assumes she’s just another nosy reporter. He sits down on the white couch, one of Waliyah’s cats climbs on his lap. Doctor Rossdale’s allergic to cat hair.

He strokes the cat like a cliché movie villian and waits.

"It’s about your friend", Doctor Rossdale begins, putting a quiet question mark at the end of the introduction to whatever words she’ll choose to explain Zayn as much as he needs to know but not more than he should. "Niall Horan.

"What about Niall?" He looks as his sister, then back at the doctor.

"Has he told you about his new… girlfriend?", Doctor Rossdale asks. It’s still weird to think of her Morgan as this man’s lover.

"Yes." Zayn nods. He’s so sceptical. "Who are you?"

"I already told you, Zayn.", Waliyah says. She’s a calm, confident young woman. Doctor Rossdale likes her. Women like her never frequent her office. "I saw her ID. She’s not working for the newspapers or anything like that."

The cat on Zayn’s lap purrs and rolls on her back. He pets her belly and Doctor Rossdale can barely suppress the urge to sneeze.

"Why are you askin’ me about Niall? Why don’t you go ask him yourself?"

"He’s not in town.", Francis Rossdale explains. "And that’s the point. A lot of things has happened. Mor- his girlfriend is one of my patients."

"She is?" Zayn asks, scrunching his nose. Then, he grins. "Fits perfectly. Niall’s gotten a little nuts in time, too. Like, shit. The dude’s crazy. He told me about how much he likes her. And that’s some time ago.The way he talked back then, man, they’re probably married by now."

Doctor Rossdale thinks of Morgan in a wedding dress. It makes her horribly sentimental.

"So what’s the problem?", Zayn wants to know. "What do you want now?"

"Basically, I wonder if you, Mr Malik, could give me Niall Horan’s cell phone number."

"Uh-uh." Zayn shakes his head. "No way."

"Zayn, she’s not lying, she’s just concerned.", Waliyah remarks.

"Why?", Zayn wants to know. He’s not exactly the friendliest guy Doctor Rossdale’s ever met. But she likes him, though. He looks fragile, but like a marble statue at the same time. She wonders what’s going on behind his beautiful brown eyes. If he knows about Niall’s secret.

"I can’t tell you everything. I’ve made a vow. I can’t talk about my patients.", Doctor Rossdale explains, struggling with the pain in her nose. Her eyes are burning, too. All this in addition to the pearls of sweat that run down her thighs. Allergy and menopause issues at once make her feel gross. Like she hasn’t washed herself in a week or two.

"Yeah, but Niall’s not one of your patients.", Zayn sighs. He’s getting annoyed.

"Well, he should be.", Francis mumbles. She couldn’t keep that to herself. Zayn raises his brows again and purses his lips.

"Zayn.", Waliyah admonishes him. "Come on. It’s an important matter."

"But what is the matter? I don’t,- I don’t understand.” He puts the cat back on its feet and leans forward, crossing his fingers under his chin. “Has Niall done anything to your patient? And how come you know he’s not in town?”

"Are you aware that Niall’s manager commited suicide?", Doctor Rossdale asks.

Zayn nods. “I didn’t really know that guy. But I think he was gay and shit. Like, Niall told me he felt like that dude had a crush on him. Maybe he couldn’t take seeing Niall in a serious relationship. I don’t know. It’s a shame. But it’s proven that it’s suicide, right? Like, you’re not gonna tell me you think that Niall killed him or something?”

"No.", Doctor Rossdale quickly says. Then, she sneezes. So loud, Waliyah flinches and scoots away from her. "But-" She sneezes again.

"Are you okay, Doctor?", Waliyah asks. Francis just nods, inhales deeply and continues: "I’m just a little concerned. It seems as if Niall ran off with my patient and there’s some really important questions I need to ask them. They are in danger."

"What do you mean, danger?" Even if he didn’t seem to care as much before, the thought of his old friend at stake seems to alarm him.

"It’s all good. If you let me call him, I can talk it out with him probably. We’ll find a solution. I’m just worried about my patient. She’s labile, more than I thought probably. And", she adds, even though that’s not true, but she knows it’ll help to convince the artist in front of her, "she needs medicine."

Zayn cusses and shakes his head. “Fine.”, he then gives in. It must be Francis Rossdale’s lucky week. “I’m not giving you his number. Imma call him myself.”

"But don’t tell him I’m here, please. Don’t tell him what I just told you.", Doctor Rossdale pleas. "I’m asking you to do me that favour for the sake of my patient’s safety."

Zayn’s eyes widen and again, Francis wonders what he’s thinking.

"Okay.", he then says and pulls his phone out of his tight black jeans’ pocket. He taps on a number and waits. And waits. And waits. "It says there’s no such number."

"Have you checked if it’s the right number?", Waliyah asks.

"Of course, Waliyah, I called Niall just some time ago because my dealer’s gotten me-" He looks at the doctor and swallows the rest of that sentence. "It’s his number. At least it was."

"Great.", Doctor Rossdale sarcastically says. That’s how Morgan would react. "Just great. And now?" She knows it’s not the time to panic, but all of sudden, she realises that there’s not just the pressure her sympathy for Morgan puts on her shoulders, no, there’s also a time limit. The clocks are ticking. And she felt so sure of herself when Zayn gave in. On the other hand, she should have seen it coming. Niall was smart. Subtle. Good at hiding. Of course he threw away his phone.

"And now?", Waliyah asks. She seems truly emotionally involved. "What do we do now?"

"Is there anyone who might know where Niall is? I mean, he used to be famous, aren’t there stalkers or anything?", Doctor Rossdale asks. She feels so silly for it. One of her earliest patients was a stalker. Peter Rutherford. A short, skinny and shockingly pale man with a huge nose who slept in his victim’s garbage bin just to be close to her.

Zayn gets up from the couch and walks to the window, then back. And then, he laughs. “Well I know a guy who might help.”, he chuckles. “He’s not a stalker but even after years twice as fond of Niall as every stalker I’ve ever heard of.”

"And who is that?", Doctor Rossdale asks, feeling her hope rushing back in.

"Harry Styles.", Zayn says.

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

Niall carried me downstairs again. I didn’t fight this time. The memory of my pathetic attempts to make the men let go of me is blurry now. All I can think of is Fefe’s words. And unfortunately, how good it feels to sit on his lap, his arms tightly wrapped around me, his mouth pressed against my cheeks, mumbling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry”, again and again and again. He holds me so tight I can barely breathe, but I’m tired of telling him I don’t want him to hug me because it’s wrong, I do. What Fefe said is spinning in my head. For once, a real voice, of a real person, and not the weirdly high or low pitched voice of one of m demons echoes from the walls of my dizzy brain. It’s so loud and I wish I could make her shut up, but I can’t. Only when I look at her, on the other couch in front of me, reading her cheap novel, I realise that she’s not really talking to me. That it’s only happening in my head. I think back to when I read the last Harry Potter book. A quote that stuck with me through all the years seems to fit the situation I’m in perfectly. I think it was Dumbledore who told Harry: “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that is is not real?”

Harry’s watching TV, but I can tell that he can’t focus. He’s so much easier to suss than Niall. He’s not the mysterious bad boy everyone wanted him to look like back in the day. And now that he actually tries to be the intimidating pop mogul he only looks like when he’s drunk and counting money, it’s even easier to recognise that he’s far from the asshole at first impression.

In terms of Niall, my first impression was right. Trouble.

"How are you feelin’ now, baby?", Niall asks, rocking me back and forth on his lap like a proper dad. "Does your nose still hurt? I’m so sorry I did this to you. I was just so worried"

I want to shout at him, want to ask him about my mother, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I think the fact I don’t protest again him pampering me like this confuses him a little. And that’s good. He can be the confused one of us for a change. I try so hard to stick to Fefe’s words and not question what’s not to be answered yet. But it’s my mother. My fucking mother. Whom I kind of miss. And Dylan. Since she mentioned she “heard his name in my head”, I can’t stop seeing his face in there. If he saw me with Niall, what would he say? What would he do?

"I feel okay.", I say. It’s a lie. But honestly, I’m being lied to all the time. Telling him that I’m good despite the shit he puts me through will make him suspicious. He doesn’t believe me anyway. He puts his chin on my shoulder and kisses my neck. The same voice I heard some days ago tells me to save myself and run. But Fefe’s is still louder. Until she actually starts talking.

"Harry, you don’t even watch what you’re watching.", she says and puts her book down. Even though they’re not even really dating, they remind me of an old married couple. I feel sorry for Fefe. I wish she meant as much to Harry as he means to her.

"So?", Harry mumbles. "Got anything else in mind? Wanna go upstair and suck me off or something?"

That’s when his phone rings. He frowns and looks at the display. “That’s Zayn.”

Niall tenses. “Zayn?”

"Zayn.", Harry says, shrugs and answers the phone. "Yooooooooo."

I can’t understand what Zayn’s saying, especially because Niall hisses: “Do. Not. Tell. Him. That. We’re. Here!”

Harry shakes his head and mouths “‘f course not!” as if there wasn’t any doubt at all. “Yeah, I’m good. What’s the matter, Malik?”

He’s such an idiot. Zayn Malik. My god, just now I remember who I’m dealing with. Who the man who does all these things to me really is. Just a human being. Just a human being like me.

I always hated feeling purely human.

"What do you mean? No, Niall is,- Niall is not here." Harry looks at Niall and pulls a weird face. Niall’s holding his breath. He’s squeezing my hand, it hurts. He’s afraid.

"No, I don’t know where he is."

I look at Fefe, whose eyes are glued to Harry, too. Does she know what Zayn’s saying? Can she sense it? Her psychic powers, if they really exist, overcharge my brain.

"Sorry I couldn’t help. Is he- is he okay? Is there anything wrong with Niall? Should I be worried?" I’m surprised by how good Harry lies. Well, actually, I’m not surprised at all.

"Doctor Rossdale?"

Within a split second, I get nauseous. The sound of my therapist’s name drowns out all the voices in my head. I get weak and I’m glad Niall holds me. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. He flinched, too. He leans forward. I can see the veins on his forearm shining through his skin. My jaw dropped, my throat is dry. Why is Zayn, whom I’ve never met in my whole life, talking about my therapist? Why is my therapist involved in this web of lies? She should never find out where I am. I totally forgot her. I only just realised I just left her behind. I just ran away. She’s probably worried. Not that I care. But I should. I should care about that. About her. I scoot off Niall’s lap and lean against the couch, wrapping my arms around my knees.

"Therapist of Niall’s girlfriend. I see."

"Fuck.", I whisper. Niall immediately puts his flat hand on my mouth and hisses "Quiet!"

"Sorry, no.", Harry says. "Hold on, Zayn, tell me! Are you gonna be a dad or was it a rumor? Oh, okay. Yeah, sorry. No. I don’t know, call Liam maybe. I really don’t know. And you know I would,… I would tell you. Yeah, Zayn. Yes. Have a good one."

Harry hangs up and turns to us, like in slow motion. He drops the phone on the couch. He looks so fucking angry. He clenches his fists and walks over to the couch me and Niall sit on.

It all happens too quick to stop him. None of us, including Harry himself, expected him to be the one to first raise his hand against the other, but he grabs Niall by the collar of his shirt, pulls him on his legs, lunges out and punches him straight in the face. Not too hard, but hard enough for Niall to stumble back.

"I fucking lied to Zayn! For you! Just so you could continue playing your sick game!", Harry shots.

"Harry!", Fefe calls him and gets up. She attempts to put her hand on his shoulder, but he shakes it off.

I’m afraid Niall will punch him back, but he’s just standing there, huffing and rubbing his nose. A stream of thick red blood runs on his fingers.

"I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe! I’m! Doing this!", Harry laughs. He’s going fucking bat shit now. Then again, angry Harry is still not half as crazy as calm Niall. He walks to the windows, then back to us, then to the wall at the other side of the room, only to punch it, too. "Fuck!"

"Harry.", Fefe says again. I wonder how she manages to stay so calm. Without noticing, I jumped on my feet, ready to fight, even if I don’t know who I’d fight. Harry? To defend Niall? Did he deserve any proctection at all? Harry is right after all, isn’t he?

He leans against the wall, facing the plaster. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Niall, for fuck’s sake. This is what friendship means, right? Isn’t that true friendship?”

Niall doesn’t say anything. He’s just staring at me. Why me? Why doesn’t he stare at Harry? I’m not talking to him! And why is there undeniable fear in his blue eyes?

"Are you okay?", he asks me.

"What?", I ask back. "Well, Harry didn’t punch me, did he?"

Niall licks the blood off his lips and I hate him for how hot it looks, in the most inappropriate situation ever. I can’t keep myself from wondering how his blood tastes.

"I know, Harry.", Niall mumbles. "True friendship."

Harry walks back to us and stops right in front of Niall. And then, and it’s disturbing and by far the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, he opens his arms and pulls Niall in a hug. He closes his eyes and buries his face on Niall’s shoulder. And I can see a single tear streaming down his face. I know Niall soaks Harry’s shirt in blood, I know Niall doesn’t like that Harry’s holding him so tight.

I look at Fefe and she seems just as surprised.

I know I’m not supposed to hear what Harry whispers in Niall’s ear, but I do.

"I wouldn’t do this for any of the other boys, bro. You know that. Me and you, we’ve always had a special bond, right? Me and you until the fucking end, man."

"Yeh.", Niall replies. “‘f course, Harry. And you know I’m thankful."

"Her therapist is there, man. Zayn doesn’t know but I can tell that she knows. What if she calls the cops? They’ll put me in jail, too, Niall. I’m too fucking pretty for jail."

"Shut up.", Niall chuckles. "We’re not going to jail, you fucking idiot."

Fefe knows I heard it. Fefe knows I heard “cops”. I heard “her therapist is there”. I heard “jail”. I heard it all. She looks at me and shakes her head, putting her finger on her lips to indicate me to be quiet. I wonder if she knows that my urge to listen to the voice that tells me to run away is more intense than ever.

"I think it’s time to leave now.", Harry then says, loudly, so I can hear it, too. "I’m gonna make Geoff take you home."

I nod and fake a weak smile, as if their hug had eased me in any way. In fact, a part of me is almost disappointed the situation didn’t escalate. For some reason, I would’ve loved to watch Niall beat Harry up.

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

_____________________________________________

"Hey, Morgan. Babe, look at the ocean." Niall pulls her to the edge of Harry’s porch, pointing at the dark blue ocean in the silver moonlight.

"It’s beautiful.", she says, looking at him with confusion in her eyes. She’s probably wondering why he’s suddenly so enrapt by the sight of the sea when it’s her who hasn’t been to the shore in so long before he took her here.

"Babe, do you treasure the moments we share?", he wants to know. He’s in desperate need of affection. He feels so guilty, he just wants to be sure she still wants him. He’ll fuck her once they get back, just to feel in control. His ego needs that. At least physically possess her when he seems to lose his power over her soul.

"Of course. I never felt this way towards anyone.", she confesses. His heart is happy, but his brain doubts her words. She doesn’t seem to be too convinced and he knows she’s still afraid.

He can’t stop thinking about the face of her therapist. He saw it on a picture in the Bethlem Royal when he sneaked in to steal the big folder full of notes she took during sessions with Morgan. And other documents. Papers that made Morgan look like a case. Not the beautiful girl in his arms, the girl he’d do anything for. The folder is in the black bag back in the house he wants to be her home so badly. He hopes she’ll never find it, but she’s smart, too smart. He can’t lie to her as much as he wishes he could. Well, he wishes he wouldn’t have to lie to her in first line, but not having to lie to the one you love to keep them happy was a fairytale he never believed in. And Morgan didn’t believe in fairytales, too. She’s always been curious, but today, she reached a new level of suspiciousness. And that worries him. So much.

And the fact Doctor Rossdale put actual effort in finding out Zayn’s sister’s adress, the fact she’s trying to reach him, warn her,- all this doesn’t just worry him. No, it scares him.

But all he can do for now is stand there, about to go back to the empty house with her, showing her the ocean a last time before he has to get drastic. And he hopes she treasures that moment. And he hopes that she’ll say the words he interrupted when he numbed her before she might never say them again. Because what was once only a vague fear in the back of his mind now seems like the possible end to story he began to write when he took her home to the club. The story that could’ve been about love only. Insane, crazy, irrational love. But love. Until he, being the fucking drug addicted idiot he’s gotten used to being, tried to chase the first signs of that love he didn’t want in the start by fucking that ginger girl in the back of street. Because by turning her into his slut for the night, he turned this love story into a tragedy of lies, violence and murder.

_________________________________________________

_________________________________________________

_________________________________________________

He watches me shower past midnight, in the too cold bathroom of our so called home. He sits on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, his hand flattened on his crotch. I didn’t tell him to leave. I can’t pretend I don’t like it. I’ve been feeling in the need for some physical affection since Fefe woke me up. Maybe she did that to me. I can’t deny I’m weirdly attracted to her after what we did. Of course I am. That’s just natural. Human. I don’t like that. But I like Niall watching me. I like it how I locked my eyes with his as I washed myself behind the glass, I like how he smirks at me.

"Come here.", he says when I step out of the shower. He gets up and pulls me against his body. He’s still wearing his shirt and boxers and I soak them in the water that runs down my warm skin. "Come here.", he repeats before he presses his mouth on mine, grinding the hard bulge in his tight white Calvin Klein’s on my naked lower stomach.

"I want to fuck you.", he growls. "I need to fuck you."

I can imagine that his damn ego needs to affirmation after what he did to me. I can imagine he’s more afraid of losing me than ever before. And he should be. Even if it hurts me. Even if I hope that he’ll never find out about how loud the voice in my head has gotten. On our way home, we didn’t say a single word. I couldn’t talk. It was too loud in my head. Too quiet around me. He just sat there and squeezed my hand so tight I was afraid he’d break my fingers.

"Hmhm.", I just mumble, putting my wet hand on his chest. His heart is racing. There’s a bit of dried blood on his collar. I look up and kiss his nose. "I know."

"Will you let me?", he asks. "Can I?"

It’s funny to watch the oh so intimidating Niall Horan being so desperate for sex. With me. Mostly because he’s sorry, in some way.

"Yes.", I give in. I want him, too. "I’ll let you fuck me. I want you to."

He smiles and squeezes my ass before he lifts me and throws me over his shoulder. This time, I don’t fight. I let him carry me upstairs to the bed on the gallery. There’s still water and foam dripping from my body. I don’t care. He drops me on the matress and immediately climbs on top of me. His shirts sticks to his skin. He’s hard for me and I love the feeling of his cock on my lower tummy as he reaches out to grab my wrists and pins them down above my head.

"I know I ask too much of you.", he says. "But there’s something I want to try."

"What?" He’s talking about some kind of sick sexual practise, I can imagine. And the worst thing about it is that I won’t protest. Here I am, underneath a man whose friends is afraid he’ll go to jail for lying for him, willing to do whatever he wants me to. This is the sickest addiction of them all. No drug in the whole world is as addictive is destructive, illogical love.

"What do you want as our safe word?", he asks, ignoring my previous question.

We should’ve probably agreed on one earlier. “I don’t know.”, I say.

"Come on, what do you think of?"

Fefe’s words? My dead mother? Dylan? Doctor Rossdale?

How fucking much I love you even though I want to run away from you?

I look at the white walls, at his excited face above me and I straight forward say: “American Psycho, in all honesty.”

He rolls his eyes and laughs an arrogant, snotty laugh. “Do you?”, he chuckles. “That’s a good film, actually. Cracks me up. The dead cat thing in the end.”

"So funny.", I dryly say.

"So you thinkin’ Patrick Bateman? Do I remind you of him?", he laughs.

"Yeah." I shrug.

"You’re so silly.", he laughs and kisses me. He reminds me of him way too much.

"This can’t be out safe word, though. Choose something nice, baby. Something cute." The way he says ‘cute’, like a six year old that spotted a puppy, makes me smile. "Maybe something refering to a memory we share. John Christie!"

"We’re having a thing for serial killers it seems.", I say.

"Oh, yeah we do.", Niall laughs and kisses me again. A little too hard. Our teeth clash. "I know. Apple pie."

"Why apple pie?", I ask. "That doesn’t make sense."

"See, the morning you woke up in my flat. When you were soooo scared I’d fucked you. I ate an apple. And you looked at it, then looked at me and I could tell you were thinking of sucking the juice off my chin and my cock right afterwards.", he whispers.

"You’ve been so sure of yourself from the beginning on, it’s disgusting.", I reply.

"I didn’t know where we’d end up.", he says.

"Where did we end up?", I ask him. Because I really don’t know.

"In the city of angels, babe.", he says.

Then why does it feel like purgatory?

"Apple pie.", I sigh. "Fine. Are you gonna make me scream for pie then?"

"I hope I won’t.", he mutters. "Well, I hope you’ll pull yourself together and not say it because you know I like it a little painful."

"What do you wanna do to me, Niall?", I ask. "If you’re talking about anal, you’re making too much of a drama, I wouldn’t mind-"

"Oh, you wouldn’t?", he laughs. No matter how happy he seems, I know that he’s pretending. I can tell he’s nervous, his heartbeat is irregular, he’s breathing too low. He’s shaking a little as well. "Do you want me to fuck your ass? I can do that. I’d love to. So you’re a little anal slut, too? Morgan, Morgan, Morgan."

"No, I’m only saying-"

"Shh. It’s okay. I wasn’t talking about that. I just wanna tie you up a little. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure.", I say.

"Stay there. Don’t. Move.", he says with a grin before he rolls off of me and walks to the closet.

I don’t turn my head after him. I stare at the ceiling. I know enough about psychology to assume he needs the illusion of control over me more than ever before. Maybe that’s why he’s so into dominating me in general. Because he feels like this is the only way he can control the monster inside of him. The monster inside of him. Only now I realise that it’s me. I am the monster inside of him. I’m not hiding under his bed. I’m in it. I don’t hurt him, I make him hurt others. I’m not lying to him, I make him a liar. I inhale deeply and arch my back. And hope for him to hurry because there’s a slight chance he’ll be able to make me feel a little better. By torturing me. Isn’t that what monsters deserve?

With his teeth in my flesh and his greedy hands all over my body, his tongue in my throat and his limbs intertwined with mine.

He comes back and stands above me, looking down with appetite in his eyes. There’s a black rope in his hand and I know what’s next.

"Turn around.", he says. I obey. He ties my hands together behind my back, so tight it hurts. The rope burns, but I like it.

"Are you just gonna fuck me from behind?", I ask. "Boring."

"Uh-uh. I need to see your face, you know that.", he mutters and makes me turn around again. He grabs my face, squeezes my cheeks and goes "Aaah" to make me open my mouth, too. Without a warning, he spits. Again. That’s probably his biggest kink. He smirks because I’m still surprised and tells me to swallow. "Appetizer.", he grumbles before he proceeds to wrap the rope around my shoulders and torso.

It’s astonishing, he knows exactly what he’s doing. This is actual professional bondage. I don’t wanna know how often he’s done that before. I wonder if he ever slept with a professional submissive.

"Fuck.", he groans, spreading my legs to put a rope around the upper end of my thighs, left and right to my center. He knots it together on my back. He lifts and turns me like I’m weightless until I’m entirely wrapped up in black cords.

"Get up.", he commands and grabs my arm to pull me on my knees. "Wait."

He walks to the mirror that leans against the wall and turns it into my direction so I can see myself. I like it. I love my reflection. I like seeing myself tied up like this. I can still move, but my legs only. My arms are tied together, so tight I automatically arch my back. He did a pentagram knot around my breasts, I’ve seen that before. It looks pretty. There’s something about it. He wrapped the rope around my thighs, too, so I’m forced to keep them spread a little. He’s so fucking weird.

"You’ve been practising this before.", I remark and laugh. "You’re so fucking sick."

"Uh-uh. That’s not sick. That’s art, babe.", he says, sounding intentionally serious. "I like that. You look fucking pretty."

"Does that kind of stuff turn you on?", I ask. He could do anything to me now. Regarding what Harry whispered to him before, regarding Fefe’s and my conversation, I shouldn’t let him do that to me. But there’s a prickle in the pit of my stomach and an ache between my legs that make me forget about these words. And I’m more than thankful for that. When he fucks me and touches me like that, I’m okay with feeling human. Feral even, maybe.

"Yes.", he says. His eyes seem darker now. He’s so turned on. It satisfies me to know that he wants me more than I want him. He runs his fingers through his hair and exhales loudly. "Yes, I really like that. Just look at you. The perfect fuck toy."

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still standing there and staring at me. Devouring me with his eyes, biting his lips. Why is he so nervous? I know he’s admiring me, and that makes me feel unusually warm inside, but there’s something else in his face. Not quite fear, not quite despair. Something in between.

He shudders and grabs me by my throat, forcing me to kiss him. He walks back to the closet, fidgeting his jacket until he found the little bag of white powder he was looking for. Of course. I bet a line of this will change the expression on his face. I want to tell him to try and do without it, but I keep quiet.

"Okay.", he pants. "Let’s take care of you." He comes back and pinches my cheek.

"Niall, maybe you shouldn’t-"

"Maybe you should shut up, yes?", he says and winks at me. "Be a good girl or I’ll put a gag in your mouth, too. And then there’s no way for you to scream for pie."

I swallow and nod. I know he’s not completely serious, but his words and the insane spark in his eyes had an effect on me. I’m still kneeling on the bed, looking up to him. My skin is dry now, it itches a little.

He strokes his hard on through his boxers with his right hand, opening the little bag with his left and his teeth. “Lay down.”, he says.

It hurts to stretch my legs out after kneeling and I feel a little silly falling on my back, but he likes it. He’s so pleased with the sight of my bound body. “Pervert.”, I mumble and he scrunches his nose.

"I know.", he whispers and sticks his tongue out. "You too, slut."

He takes off his shirt and his boxers and climbs on top of me. I’m a little annoyed I can’t see enough of him. He pours the white powder along the rope between my breasts, forming a line with the blade of a pocket knife. I have no idea where he got it from. My heart skips a beat. I don’t like knifes too much. Even though I used them too often in my life. Or maybe especially why.

"Are you okay?", he asks, aware of how uncomfortable I suddenly got.

"Yes.", I lie.

"The knife, huh? Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna put it away. Don’t move though.", he says. "I don’t wanna hurt you."

He just tosses the knife to the floor, bends over and snorts the line from my breasts. It tickles and even though I know that as a loving girlfriend, I should keep him from doing drugs, I’m in terms with the monster I am in this very moment and I love the feeling of doing something bad, something dirty.

He inhales sharply through his teeth and tilts back, pulling a weird face. “Fuck. That’s good stuff. Fuck.” He quickly shakes his head, then raises his arms and stretches. I watch his muscles flex under his pale, sunburnt skin. I wish I could touch him, wish I could at least feel the hair on his chest or the muscles underneath.

"What you’re lookin’ at?", he asks in a playful tone. "Wish your hands were free, huh?"

"Yes.", I confess.

"I’m not even sorry.", he groans and bends over again to kiss me. "Not in the slightest bit. I love to see you like this."

"I can imagine.", I whisper.

"Be quiet now, okay? Until I tell you you’re allowed to talk again. Can you do that for me? Can you keep your little mouth shut?" The tip of his cock is brushing against my slit. I feel the familar twitch and wish for him to give me what I need already.

"Yes.", I reply.

"Not like that." He softly slaps my face. The satisfaction dominating me gives him pleases me in a way I’ve never known before. "I asked you if you can keep your mouth shut and you say ‘Yes’? Do you understand me at all? I was asking can you keep your mouth shut?”

Now, I only nod.

"Yes.", he says, with a long S in the end. "That’s it." He spreads my legs with his big hands, and positions himself between them, teasing me with his cock, making me whimper.

"Shh.", he growls. "Quiet."

I can’t look down because the ropes on my back are too tight for me to comfortably raise my head. The position I’m in is unnatural. I’m bound, gagged and displayed, like in that damn Misfits song. Niall traces my slit with his calloused fingertips, then dips them in.

"Someone’s dripping. Someone needs to get fucked.", he comments and I can tell he’s smiling. "Who did this to you? Who made your cunt so wet and warm?"

I know I’m not allowed to speak. I’m not gonna risk that he stops touching me. It feels so good. My thighs are a little numb from how tightly the rope’s wrapped around them, which makes the burn between them feel twice as instense.

"You’re such a good girl, Morgan.", he sighs. He’s grasped his cock with one hand, pleasing me with the other. I know he watches his hands, know he loves to see how I buck my hips and spread my legs further for him, even if it hurts.

"Want Daddy t’ fuck ya?", he asks. I bite my lip and nod again. And finally, he lowers himself on me. He’s holding his body up with one arm only. He’s so much stronger than he seems. His other hand’s still between my thighs, rubbing my clit as he enters me. It’s so good. I’ve been aching for him to fuck me. I want to moan and tell him how much I love the feeling of his cock inside of me, but I’m forbidden to talk and I love this game we play.

He’s so good, he knows exactly what it takes to push me to the edge. I feel so used and I love it. He goes hard and deep, keeping his eyes locked with mine to make sure I’m aware of who possesses my body.

"You love that, don’t you?", he asks, gasping for air. His cheeks are flushed, his hair sticks to his forehead. "My baby girl loves getting fucked like that, huh? Hard and rough. You’re clenching already, you fuckin’ whore. D’ya want to cum? Does Daddy make your pussy twitch?"

It’s so hard not to moan. Niall’s hot breathe on my face is making me shiver. I close my eyes and focus. I want to cum. “Look. At. Me.”, he hisses.

He kisses me again, exhaling into my mouth, filling my lungs with heat. Spit drips from his lips on my tongue. His thrusts get abrupt. He’s throbbing inside of me, I know he’s close, too.

"Want me to cum in yer tummy?", he pants. He bites my lower lip, tugs on it and groans. "Tell me how much you like it, baby."

I’m not sure if he’s serious or just testing me again. The only thing I’m sure of right now is that I’m going to come. I’m coming undone and cumming around his throbbing cock.

"Scream.", he whispers into my ear.

And I do it. I scream out, let go. The moment I reach my high, he cums, too. Three hard thrusts, then he collapses on top of me. My arms, still yanked behind my back of course, are numb, and his weight on me doesn’t really make my position any more comfortable for me. He doesn’t attempt to pull out and get off of me, he doesn’t move, except for his mouth, pressed against my cheek, mumbling: “That was good. That was so good. You’re my good little slave. Good little slut. My baby. I love you. I love you.”

"It was very good, yes.", I say and kiss his cheek. "Can you untie me now?"

"I don’t wanna move. It feels so good, babe, I love being so close to you, I love being inside you. I’m so fuckin’ obsessed with fucking you.", he mumbles. The coke’s doing its job it seems. He sounds like a lunatic. Well, he is one, isn’t he?

"Niall, please.", I beg. My bones ache, my muscles are sore.

"You’re so pretty like that, baby.", he whispers, but finally gets off of me. His pupils are wide and dark. The vein on his forehead clearly visible. Sweat runs down his temples. "Will you let me tie you up like this again? I love seeing you like that.", he asks, making me turn around. "Wait."

He gets up from the bed to grab the pocket knife from the floor. “The knots are so tight. I did a good job. I learned this from a hooker, by the way. I didn’t sleep with her. She just taught me how to do that. I’ve always had a thing for that, I don’t know why. Well, I didn’t know why. Now I do.”

He cuts the rope open and I feel the sweet relief of being released. I stretch out and yawn. It must be around 3 AM. I’m tired, even though I’ve slept all day.

Niall drops the rope, puts the pocket knife on the plastic chair besides the bed and pulls me into his arms, kissing my neck, nuzzling my hair. “I love you so much, you have no idea. And one day you’ll tell me, too. I know that you love me. I know that you need me. You’re just as addicted as I am.”

"Am I?", I ask. My lids are so heavy. I curl up and reach out for the blanket. Niall turns off the lamp by the bed and helps me.

"Yes, you are. Do you wanna sleep a bit? I’ll watch over you."

"Sleep, too.", I mumble.

"I can’t. Too fuckin’ high.", he chuckles.

I don’t reply.

"Morgan, hey. Babe. You know what? One day I’m gonna fuckin’ marry you. One day everything’s going to be alright and we’ll be perfectly fine." I close my eyes, his whispered words shall be my lullaby. "And I won’t put you through so much shit anymore.", he mumbles. "Do you know how sorry I am? I’m so sorry. But I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be your man until the day I fuckin’ die, I promise. I’m gonna fuckin’ marry you, Morgan Valentine."

Well fuck. Now, I’m wide awake.

I’m out of bed and on my feet within a split second.

"Morgan,- what?" Niall reaches out to put on the lamp again. "Morgan!"

I’m standing in the middle of our improvised bedroom, shaking, gnashing my teeth, sweating. I’m naked, not just in the literal sense. He exposed me. It feels like I’ve still been wearing one of these masks. And he just ripped it off my face.

"Morgan?" He sits up and I can tell he’s scared.

"Niall.", I pant. "Who told you my last name?"

"Fuck.", he cusses. "Fuck."

"Niall. How do you know my real name?"


	21. Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I scream God, forgive me, please, cause I want you on your knees.

"Put it down, Morgan. Put the knife down."

His voice is calm, muffled in my ears. I’m dizzy. I feel every bone in my body, feel every vein pulsating in fear, anger and brute aggression. The room around me seems to spin. All I see are his wide eyes, large pupils like black gemstones in the middle of a blue ring.

I didn’t even realise I picked up the knife when I jumped on my feet. I must be pointing the sharp blade at Niall. He’s holding up his hands, trying to protect himself. From the knife. From me.

"Put it down.", he repeats in a pleading tone. "Morgan, babe, I’ll explain, just don’t do something stupid now."

Something stupid? Something stupid as in hurting myself? No. This is not what he’s talking about anymore. He is afraid of me. He is afraid I’ll hurt him. And the worst thing about that is that neither my own fear, nor the rush I feel can cover up the dark urge that grows in my stomach. I’m like a dog that’s being forced into a tight corner, snapping at whoever threatens them, loved one or not.

"Morgan, baby, please. Everything’s going to be okay.", Niall says. Pearls of sweat run down his temples.

I’m out of words. My fingers wrapped around the blade start to bleed. It doesn’t even hurt. Maybe because I’m used to it. Maybe because the adrenaline has numbed my nerve endings. I drop the knife, feel the warm blood drip down my palm, on my legs, to the floor. In the same second, Niall stumbles forward, yanking my arm, falling to his knees to pick up the bloody knife. My body reacts before my brain, I grab him by his hair and pull, making him turn over and fall on his back. I feel threatend. So I fight back. What surprises me is the strength with which I pushed him to the floor. He’s shocked, too, but he quickly rolls to the side, reaching out to grab my ankle. I crouch and try to pull the knife out of his tight grip. It’s not like I really believe that he’ll use it on me, but everything I used to think I knew has turned out to be an illusion, false belief, anyway.

He holds on to the blade and me pulling on it only causes deep cuts on the insides of his sweaty hands. I’m sorry for hurting him, so sorry. I watch the blood splutter through his fingers. I look at his face. And that motherfucker smiles at me.

"Is this what you wanted?", he hisses, spitting on the floor. "Is this the kind of shit that gets you going?"

"I only want to know the fucking truth, finally.", I say, grabbing him by the back of his head again. If I pulled it back, then pushed it forward, I could smash his face on the cold floor.

"Do it!", he shouts, once again reading the sinister signs in my face. "Do it, Morgan! Do it and run away, if this is what you want!"

I wonder if it’s the drugs that cut through his usual curtain of vagueness. Why is he so dolorously explicit? Do I want to run away? Yes, I do. Until I find the truth. Until I’ve won this game I never wanted to take part in.

But then, I’d come back. I’d always come back to him anyway, wouldn’t I? He’s the only home I have anymore. He’s the only rock in this ocean of madness. I can’t let my waves crash over him. I let go and close my eyes, inhale deeply. “Fuck you.”, I mutter and get up. I walk to the wall, lean against it, concentrating on nothing but the feeling of my sweaty skin sticking to the white paint.

"How do you know my name.", I repeat, each letter hurting on the inside of my throat.

The next thing I feel is his damp hand on my cheek, smearing his hot blood over my face and his low voice vibrating against my lips. “I know everything.”

I shiver and open my eyes to look at him. He’s so close. Less than half an hour ago ,he fucked me. Now, I’m afraid a murder will happen. I’m shaking like crazy. The urge to shove him to the side and get the knife he left on the floor again is unbearably strong. To drag it across my skin or his- I don’t know. I know nothing.

"Does this remind you of anything?", he asks, sounding playful in the most absurd way. What is he refering to? The bloody sex we’ve had? His sick kinks? Nathan? Or something else? Something I’m supposed to remember and can’t? Or something I’m not supposed to remember and therefore refuse to?

"No.", I say.

He squints and nods. “Fine. Okay. Fine. Listen. I’m-“

"No, I’m not listening. If you don’t tell me where you know my real name from, I will never fucking listen to you again. I’ll do it, Niall, I’ll run away. I’ll leave you. And I won’t come back."

He tilts back, opens his mouth and raises his brows. I hope my words affected him. I hope it hurt him just like he hurts me.

"Yes?", he then asks in a high pitched, silly voice. He’s making fun of me. "You wanna leave me? Then go."

He steps back. “Go and let them get you! Go and let them find you!”

Who? The press? Whoever we ran away from? Niall runs his hand through his hair, covering it in the red juice that still drips from the deep cut in his palm. “Go and leave me!”, he shouts. “If this is what you want, go! Go back home! But you will be lost without me! You’re nothing without me, nothing. I saved you, Morgan. I’m keeping you safe now. And I’ll do it forever. None of the others gave a fuck about you! Only I do! I love you! I am the one who protects you! From them! From yourself!”

His cheeks are beet red, there’s a single tear in the crinkles beneath his eyes. He never shouted at me like this. I’ve never heard him this loud. Saw him this furious. Felt so intimidated by him. And so scared. I wish I could fall through the wall in my back. Just fall. Land in the moss down below and never get back up.

"I don’t need you to protect me from anybody!", I cry. "I’ve been independent all my life!"

"And you’ve done so well, babygirl, you’ve done so well!", he praises me, still shouting. "But it’s different this time. Things have changed a little. I’m in love with you. And I need you. But if I let you go, they will get you and take you away from me. Do you want that?"

"No. I just want to know why you’re lying to me. What you’re hiding from me. And what exactly you think you have to protect me from."

"I know. I know you want to know all that, you’ve said it a million times. And I’m done drugging you, babe, I can’t do this to you any longer. But you have to realise that if you find out,-"

"What?", I cry. "What if I find out?"

"It might end even quicker."

"Do you really think I’ll leave you?", I ask. "Do you really think that after all you’ve put me through, another twist in the fucked up play we act out will make me leave you?"

He shrugs, looking like a little boy. I can’t stand him. I fucking hate him for making me love him so much.

"Do you really think that if they get me and ask me about you and want to tear us apart, Niall, do you really think that I won’t tell them that I need you? That I want to be with you? Because nobody in this goddamn world means half as much to me as you? Do you really think I won’t tell them that you treat me well? That it doesn’t matter how often we fight and that you’re a drug addict and that things in general don’t look too bright for us? That none of this matters because I- because I-” I can’t say it, but I hope he knows what I mean.

He bites his lip, fighting with words. “I-“, he stutters. “I know, but- it’s not about me, Morgan. It’s not about them wanting to save you from me. Fuck, Morgan, no. I’ve read your file. I stole it. When I say I know everything, I mean it.”

"My file? My therapist’s notes?" It doesn’t surprise me half as much as I thought it would. Maybe this is why she’s involved. Maybe she’s looking for the file and knows that there’s only one person who’s interested in me enough to break the law. Because this person is used to breaking the law.

Niall nods. “Yes.”

So he knows more than me. I thought I’d never get to read the studies on my broken mind, the results of countless talks, conversations that dug deep enough to carve all the secrets I tried so hard to keep from my insides. The written proof of my instability. And Niall knew it all. He knew everything. More than me. I cover my naked body with my arms, a weak attempt of protecting what I can. Everything about me is exposed to him.

"And I know it was not okay. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.", he mutters. "But I had to. I had to. And look baby, I’m still here. I’m with you. And I love you more with every second. If you want to leave me, leave me. But I’m never gonna leave you."

My bottom lip is shaking. I wish I could say something. I feel the need to defend myself, but I can’t. I fucking can’t. He took the last weapon I thought I had. And I believed that Fefe had been too invasive.

"Even if you run away, Morgan, I’m not gonna let you go. I’m in your head and in your heart and you can refuse to tell me that you love until the day you die, but I know that you do. I know you love me and you know I love you. And even if everything else is blurry to you, babe, this is the only thing that matters, okay? And I got you. And I will fight, I will fight every single day, for you, for us. For this." He raises his hands to show me the cuts.

"Give me the file.", I demand in a much too weak voice. "Give me the file, Niall, I want to read it."

"No."

"Yes. Give me the goddamn file."

"No, Morgan, I can’t do that. I just told you that if you find out-"

"I don’t fucking care, Niall."

I think of Fefe’s words and start to wonder if she was right. If what she said was the exact truth. If this is not about finding out, but remembering.

"It’s in the black bag, right? Where you keep the gun, too. And don’t fool me, Horan, it’s in this house. It’s up here. Probably in the closet, right? Fuck you."

I turn to the side and walk towards the closet. Niall reaches out and grabs my arm again. He’s too fucking strong, he pulls me back, yanking my arms behind my back, locking my wrists in his tight grip. “No.”, he repeats.

Calm and sweet, professing his love to me just a minute ago, he’s now willing to violently keep me from breaking his fucked up rules. He drags me to the bed, pushes me down, reaches for the rest of the ropes from our perverted play and wraps them around my hands. I try to kick him and I scream as loud as I can, but I’m helplessly delivered to him, once again.

"Turn your head.", he growls, pulling on my hair to make me go faster. "Can you breathe properly?"

I shake my head, even though it’s a lie. He sighs and holds his palm in front of my nostrils. “Liar.”, he says. “You can.”

He tightens the ropes and wraps another one around my waist, making sure I all tied up and unable to move on the bed.

"I could tell you to stay right where you are but it’s impossible for you to get up anyway.", he growls. "Morgan, I gotta be honest with you, I could perfectly fuck you in this position."

I wish he’d get off of me, I wish I could untie the ropes and kick him in the stomach, then get the black bag and run as fast as I can.

He groans into my ear and thrusts against my ass, but then, he gets up. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”, he says. “But I’m going to lock the door. I’ll hurry. I promise I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry, babe, but I had to do this.”

"It’s not like you haven’t locked me up before, right?", I hiss. I’ll find a way to escape. I have to.

"Right.", he says. "And it hurt me more than it hurt you."

That’s all he says. I can’t see him, but I know he gets the black bag, gets dressed and stops to look at me a last time before he walks down the stairs. A few footsteps later, I hear him slam the door and lock it from the outside.

__________________________________________________

__________________________________________________

__________________________________________________

The pain hurting her causes him is unbearable. There’s a huge difference between spanking, biting and choking her during sex and forcefully tying her up to keep her from running away. He never wanted to go this far, never thought he’d have to. As soon as the door’s closed behind him, he takes a deep breath, as if this could keep him from crying, but his eyes are filled with tears already and his knees are weak and tired.

He drops to the sand, wraps his arms around his legs and buries his face on them, sobbing like a little child. He hopes she doesn’ hear him. Despite it all, it’s better when she’s scared. That’ll keep her from messing with him too much. That’s something he’s learned in the last years. If they scare you, scare them back.

Seeing her with the knife in his hand brought life to words he refused to believe in for the longest time. Then telling her the truth about the file took him back to the day he stole it. It had been to easy. Another reason why he believed that it was fate that brought him and her together. Another reason to fight. Another reason to keep going. He’s tempted to go back in and untie her. Pull her against his chest and kiss her and tell her he loves her. But he told her so often. And she never said it back.

He looks at the cuts in his palms. They finally stopped bleeding. He rubs them on his kneecaps. It burns. He enjoys it. Maybe that’s the appeal of self harm to people like Morgan. Turning the pain in your head into physical pain.

He knows what he’s got to do. He could call Harry. Stay at his mansion until the break of dawn, then head to town to find a bank with lockers. Or he could just sit here and wait. That’s better. He’ll sit there and wait for the sun to rise and then, he’ll run. He promised her to get back early. But he’s not even gone. It’s like he can hear her breathing through the walls, cussing, cursing him.

After all he put her through, it would be just natural if he left. The chances of dying, if she stays or leaves, suddenly seem equal to him anyway.

"Fuck this.", he mumbles. "Fuck this."

That’s what you get for falling in love. For the first time ever, so madly. And he used to be they type that idolized true love to the point where it seemed like an unapproachable illusion of something that might not even exist. He used to be the one to wait for the “right girl”, then gave up along the way, because what even means “right”? Loving Morgan wasn’t right. Being with her wasn’t right. Treating her like that wasn’t right. He’s lost track of the way he thought he could pave with her. Something new, something wild. It didn’t have to be right. But it went so wrong, too wrong. The thought of her leaving him felt like a blunt spoon in his chest. He couldn’t be without her. But he couldn’t be with her likes this any longer, too.

Like a dark omen, he hears sirens in the distance.

Maybe he should just toss it into the ocean. Keep the gun. But drown the rest. The file. The pictures. The newspapers. He reaches into the bag and pulls them out, cringing at the sight of the deformed, slaughtered body of the girl he fucked in that alley. That was nothing compared to Nathan.

He thinks back to the night he met Morgan at the club. Closes his eyes, wipes the tears from his cheeks. Thinks back to the cigarette he offered her. Her face when he invited her to his place. How she looked next to him. How nervous he got when he reached out to touch her skin. How surprised he was that despite the drugs he didn’t just want to fuck her. How he turned around and fell asleep, just like that. Peaceful. He could have thrown her out of his flat and tried to forget about her. But he didn’t. And now he knows he never will.

"What the fuck have I done.", he whispers. "How did I end up here?"

___________________________________________________

___________________________________________________

___________________________________________________

"What the fuck, Zayn." Harry clears his throat, gently pushing Fefe off his body. She sighs in her sleep. Harry is ashamed, but since she took care of Morgan and treated his friends with such respect, his attitude and feelings towards her had changed a little. He doesn’t want to wake her, so he gets up and leaves the bedroom, shuts the door and walks down the hallway with the phone in his hands.

"Why’d you lie to me?", Zayn asks.

"What do you mean?" Harry’s heart skips a beat. "Are you alone?"

"I’m at home. I’m alone, yes. You can trust me. And I thought I could trust you, too. Was it because this woman was here? Who is she? The therapist of Niall’s girlfriend?"

"He hasn’t told me much, I- Shit.Shit, Zayn, you didn’t hear that, okay?"

"So he is with you.", Zayn says.

Harry bites his lip, punches the wall. “Fuck. Yes, he is. But he’s not staying at my place, he just visited.”

"Was this girl with him?"

"Yeah, she’s lovely.", Harry says. How much does Zayn know? He has to pay attention and be careful with his words. "They’re a great couple."

"She’s a proper psychopath, huh?", Zayn chuckles.

"So is Niall."

"Yeah. Sick. He told me about her before. He’s in love with her, huh? But something’s goin’ on, man. This woman was so worried. I just wanted to tell you that you should tell them to come back for their own good. That’s all that I can say. And I’m not mad at you for lying to me. See, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but-"

"It’s almost 5 AM here, Zayn, I’m tired and-"

"Yeah, it’s all good.", Zayn says. He’s still amazed by how different things are. He feels inferior to Harry now.

"Have a good day, mate.", Harry says.

"You, too.", Zayn replies. "Please be careful. Tell them. I don’t think the therapist believed you, either."

But Harry hung up already.

______________________________________________________

______________________________________________________

______________________________________________________

It’s Nathan Montgomery’s first day back at work. He’s busy cleaning, still struggling with his sight. He’d never been beaten up like that. The fact he forced himself to refuse to admit who did this to him made him feel so ashamed. But he was scared. So scared.

Which is why in the second the door opens and he looks up to tell whoever just entered the café that it’s not open yet and he sees that it’s two policemen, he gasps for air and accidentally pushes three mugs off the counter.

"Fuckin’ shit no.", he grumbles.

"Sir?", the policemen ask. "We’re very sorry to bother you this early. Are you Nathan Montgomery?"

Nathan nods and clenches his fists. What if they’ll ask him about Niall? He swallows hard. What if this psycho finds him? Beats him up and makes sure he’ll go blind this time? How did the police find out about in first line? Did his stupid doctor tell him, like a too concerned co-worker suspecting domestic abuse? But he can’t lie to the police. He’s such a whiny little pansy. This must be why Morgan never wanted him.

"Y-yes.", he stutters. "What’s the matter."

"My name’s Edwyn Moore and this is Stanley Pritchard. We’ve got a few questions we’d like to ask you."

Nathan swallows and nods. “Sure, sure. T-take a s-seat.” He points to the table right in front of the counter and the two policemen sit down. Edwyn is tall and pale, Stanley the british counterpart to Hank Schrader.

"What is it?", Nathan asks, walking around the counter to sit down with the men. He notices they’re staring at his faded black eye and wishes could shapeshift into a more confident looking, uninjured man. Like Mystique from his favourite comic.

The officers look at each other, Stanley Pritchard nods. “Sir,- do you know this woman?”

Stanley pulls a photograph out of his pocket and shows it to Nathan.

It’s like Niall came back to punch him in the face again. The girl on the picture is definetely Morgan. She looks skinnier, younger. Her hair is shorter. And the photograph doesn’t look much like it’s been taken on christmas eve. It looks like a mugshot.

"Yes.", he says. "That’s Morgan, she used to work for me."

"Morgan Valentine.", Edwyn Moore says.

"No, her name as Morgan Sanders.", Nathan answers. "I mean, that’s what she told me. That’s what her papers said."

Edwyn and Stanley look at each other again. Nathan wishes he could understand the quiet language of police officers.

"Well, yes. She worked for you?"

"Yes, she did.", Nathan says.

"Did she ever show specifically aggressive behaviour, mood swings or any other sign of mental instability?"

Nathan frowns. Is this not about this Horan guy? And what are they talking about? Mental instability? Morgan? Who was the same careless, tolerant, almost numb and hardworking girl every single day? No way. “No.”, he then replies. “Until she met this…” He stops. If this isn’t about Niall, he should just keep it to himself. He’ll only make it worse.

"Met who?", Officer Moore wants to know.

"This man?" Stanley shows Nathan another picture. Another mugshot of a still blonde, much younger and healthier looking Niall. Nathan wonders why they didn’t just take a picture from a magazine and what it was that Niall did to have this mugshot taken.

"Y-yes.", Nathan stutters. Don’t tell them he beat you up, don’t tell them he beat you up, don’t tell them, don’t tell them, don’t tell them.

"Niall Horan.", Edwyn says and Nathan flinches.

"Sir, are you okay?", Officer Pritchard asks. He doesn’t really care. It’s just his job.

"Yeah, sure." Nathan lies. "I- I just. I don’t like this Horan guy."

Stanley covers his mouth his his big, chunky hand not to show that he’s laughing.

"Neither do we.", Edwyn says. "Anyway. We can’t give you any further information on why exactly we ask you, but is there a chance Miss Valenine and Mr Horan have eloped together?"

"Yeah, there is a chance.", Nathan grunts, feeling the usual jealousy boil in his bowel. "A very big chance."

"Where do you think they’ve gone? We’ve been to Miss Valentine’s flat. All we found was her laptop. Most of her wardrobe seem to be gone. Mr Horan hasn’t been in home in days, either."

Nathan shrugs. Of course they’d run away. Of course they’d play Bonnie and Clyde. He really hates Niall Horan.

"I don’t know, I’m really sorry.", Nathan says. "If I knew, I’d tell you. I liked Morgan. Miss San- Miss Valentine I mean. May I ask why she introduced herself with a wrong name?"

"We’re sorry, but we can’t tell you.", Stanley Pritchard says.

"Fine."

"You said you liked her? Did you get along with her very well or was it a plain co-worker like relationship?", the other Officer asks.

Shit. He can’t lie to them. He just can’t. “Well, I liked her more than she liked me.”

The officers both simultaneously raise their eyebrows. “Have you had a sexual relationship with her?”, Stanley asks.

Nathan can’t help but blush. He hasn’t had sex in over ten years. He shakes his head. “No.” How he wishes he could have said yes.

"Good. One last question. Have you met her boyfriend, Mr Horan?", Officer Pritchard asks.

"Yes, I did.", Nathan replies, hoping to god they won’t ask if Niall was the one to give him the black eye. "I met him one time. He wasn’t exactly what I’d call a nice guy. Really aggressive it seemed."

"Is that so? Aggressive towards Miss Valentine?"

"No, no. He treated her… He treated her nicely. They seemed, I don’t know, and it bugged me, but, they seemed happy together. But I personally didn’t like Mr Niall Horan at all."

"I can imagine.", Stanley says and Nathan finds that more than just unprofessional of him.

"Anyway, Mr Montgomery, that was it.", Edwyn says, gets up and shakes Nathan’s hand a little too firmly. That was quick. Nathan’s surprised that they’re satisfied with his short answers. He’s confused. The policemen say goodbye and walk out, leaving him behind with thrice as much questions as they asked.

Morgan and Niall ran away together. Morgan’s real name wasn’t Morgan Sanders. Nathan checks his watch. Still half an hour until the café opens for public. He walks into the little office behind the counter and turns on the old laptop. It takes ages, but finally, he opens the browser, inhales deeply and types “Morgan Valentine” into the little search bar in the right top corner.

Two minutes of waiting later, the result page has loaded.

Another minute later, Nathan Montgomery closes the laptop again. The café’s going to stay closed today.

_______________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________

It’s too late. They’re already there. She hides in the bushes of the picture perfect front yard and waits. They came with two cars.

Parked in the middle of the road in the cliché horror of the suburban neighbourhood Susan McCain used to live in with her unfaithful liar of a husband and two dogs she tried to kill the night he commited suicide. William and Kate. She wanted to drown them in the tub, but broke down crying on the bathroom floor. There was one person who deserved death more than Ted, more than his dogs. And that was Niall Horan. She was waiting for the policemen to come back. To dig deeper, ask her more. She had nothing to hide anymore. She wanted them to get him. He was the reason her marriage failed. He was the reason Ted hadn’t touched her in years before he shot the bullet through his brain. It was all Niall’s fault. And the faster they found him, the better it was. He was a sick, sick psychopath. The questions they asked about his supposedly just as mental girlfriend were harder to answer, though. Ted never told her about that. But now it was obvious why he acted to concerned and almost lovesick the days before his death. He had been jealous.

Thinking about that makes Susan sick. She handed the officers the weird notes she found in the bin the night she entered her husband’s office and found his dead body in the chair, brains blown out on the desk. She didn’t even cry. She saw it coming. And other than straight away calling the cops, she went straight to the bin, knowing what she’d find. Magazines with naked young men in them. The fact they even sold that made her nauseous. Growing up as one of six children in a strictly catholic family, Susan McCain opinion on homosexuals was influenced by her father’s daily sermons: They were sinners and deserved to burn in hell. There was no doubt for her that the man she thought she loved was now roasting in the pits of purgatory. A homosexual that commited suicide. She was ashamed of everything she ever felt for him.

She didn’t want the police to find out about his dirty secret. So she took the magazines from the bin and threw them away, together with the other stuff she found in there. She, of course, kept them, as an evidence for herself, just in case anyone would need the shredded paper with Ted’s hideous handwriting on it, locked it in a box and hid it in the bedroom. Later on, she moved it to the living room because she felt like she heard the gays from the magazines moaning during their sinful act.

Unfortunately, conservative and naive Susan McCain didn’t know about Manhub or Gayromeo.

Or the folder on Ted’s computer that was naimed “Clients”, but filled with thousands and thousands of pictures of Niall Horan only. Seventeen year old Niall, a clumsy looking boy with puffy cheeks and an insecure smile, crooked teeth and much too blonde hair. Eighteen year old Niall in tight polos, with long hair and braces, the raging hormones in his developing body shining through his red skin, every school girl’s dream. Nineteen year old Niall with properly cut hair, shoulders that seemed to grow more and more broad, saggy tanktops three sizes too big and a fixed smile. Twenty year old Niall, at his prime, perfectly shaped, with a stubble on his now manly face and a more hair on his chest than his head. Twenty-one year old Niall, twenty-two year old Niall, manlier, more handsome, and then the downfall of twenty-five year old Niall, skinnier, with bags under his eyes, caught doing coke, beating up random men at bars, getting drunk in public.

And the most recent picture the police found on Ted’s computer was Niall next to this girl. Ted had crossed her face out with thick red lines.

"I just wanted to… deny it. It’s so hard for me.", Susan cried to the officers as she handed them everything she had kept in the box. "We were married for over twenty years. And he just… throws it all away for a… for a man! He ruined everything!"

The police didn’t care much for the gay porn. What caught their attention were the little pieces of paper. “Mind if we-“, they asked, yet proceeded to puzzle them together on the table without waiting for Susan’s answer. And they fit.

"Mrs McCain, would you help us? What did your husband write?"

"Well, I’m not good at reading his handwriting. But I’ll try.", she sighed and leaned over the table to decode whatever Ted had written before his death. "Well, all that I can read is Los Angeles, Barry Syles and- Morgan Valentine? Alibi? I think, yes. Wait, this, too. Marla Singer. And here’s a phone number I believe." She pointed at some digits on the paper.

The policemen left the room and came back ten minutes later.

"Thank you very much, Mrs McCain."

"That’s all?", she asked, leering at the tallest of them. He was very handsome. And surely not gay.

"That’s all for now. We promise you that we will find Niall Horan. Wherever he is, he is with Miss Valentine. And we will find both of them."

"Excuse me, Sir, do you think that they are in Los Angeles?"

"Chances are high.", the handsome officer says.

"Don’t worry, Mrs.", the other officer said. "We’re going on a large-scale manhunt. It won’t take us too long."

Susan didn’t quite understand why they were tracing Niall Horan’s girlfriend, and him. They had nothing to do with Ted’s suicide, but if they did anything else they could get arrested for, she was fine with it. She just wanted to see that Niall kid suffer.

As she walked to the window to wave the policemen leaving, she noticed a woman in her front yard. Her age, just the kind that refuses to accept how old they really were. She was pretty. And Susan hated pretty women her age almost as much as gay men. She rushed to the door and yelled: “Who are you?” Even though the strange woman was still talking to the policemen. As if they had asked her the same question, she kept her eyes on the men but replied to her question: “I am Doctor Francis Rossdale. I’m Morgan Valentine’s therapist.”

________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________

By dawn, he reached the house he promised himself not to go back to over and over again. He hates himself more and more, realising he’s not half as independent as he used to think he was. First, he falls in love with this girl, then he puts his trust in the worst of all friends he’s ever had- and now he was back at his place, begging for shelter, screaming for help. He banged his fists against the door and three minutes later, Fefe opened. She didn’t hestitate, she pulled him in her arms, hugged him like a child, whispering: “It’s gonna be okay”, even though she could impossibly know what’s not okay.

Well, actually, she could.

He enjoyed the warmth of her body, she had most likely just gotten out of bed. Nothing compared to the feeling of Morgan’s body against his, but still soothing. “I need help.”, he whimpered, hating every letter of this sentence. “I’m so sorry.”

"It’s okay, don’t worry.", she calmy said and led him in.

Harry asked him if he wanted him to hide the bag for him. “I promise you, nobody will find it here.” Niall had to decide whether the possibility of the police finding evidence or Morgan finding out what he tried to keep from her as long as it was still possible scared him more. And that was a tough decision.

"Nobody knows where your house is. You could just take it back with you. Why did you leave in first line? What about Morgan?", Harry wanted to know.

"Did you leave her alone?", Fefe burst out, so unusually loud both Niall and Harry flinched. "How could you, Niall? What have you done?"

Niall tried hard to hold it back but since he’d been crying on his way here- he walked- it wasn’t easy to keep the rest of the tears from coming. “I tied her down, I just didn’t know how to-“

"She’s not a fucking animal!", Fefe yelled.

"I know that!", Niall yelled back, standing up, clenching his fists in defense.

"Yo, bro, sit down, okay?", Harry, surprisingly protective of Fefe all of sudden, said. "Fefe, this man has obviously got issues. I just didn’t expect you to be that much of a psychopath, Niall. I should’ve never…" He didn’t finish the sentence. He just picked the bottle of vodka from the table and took a big sip.

"No, I should have never.", Niall sighed and sat back down again.

"I can offer you something, Niall.", Harry then said, his eyes widened at his sudden idea. "I’ve got a safe. Like, a locker. In the bank. I’ll take that bag there."

"But you got to let me keep the gun."

"Do you think this is a good idea?"

"No. I just think that it’s necessary."

"Don’t you dare-", Fefe began, but Niall quickly hushed her. He turned to her and she knew he was honest: "I would never ever hurt Morgan. She could kill me, literally, Fefe, I’d let her kill me. I wouldn’t fight back. I regret everything I did tonight. Everything. Hurting her hurt me more than it hurt her. But it was necessary. If you’ve got half as much of the crazy witch powers you say you got, you will see that in my brain."

Fefe just nodded. “For how long have you left her alone?”, she asked.

"Just one and half hours.", Niall said. "She probably ran away anyway. She’s smarter than me, so much smarter. So much better than me in every way."

"You love her.", Fefe said.

"Yes, I do."

"Love.", Harry mumbled. "I will never understand that. You’re going fucking crazy, Niall. And of course you had to fall in love with a girl like her. Especially a-"

Harry’s eyes flickered to Fefe, who suddenly seemed pale. And hurt. Niall could tell that she hoped she’d be the reason Harry understood love one day.

And as easy as their problems seemed compared to what he went through, Niall knew he wouldn’t want to swap, he’d never want anything else but to be with Morgan. Against all odds.

"So you can put this bag- Morgan’s file- in the bank. And nobody’s gonna find out?"

"I can assure you that nobody’s gonna know about it. And nobody’s gonna find out where you hide.", Harry said.

"I’m just worried about Morgan’s… well-being.", Fefe added.

"I got her under control.", Niall said, even though he wasn’t exactly convinced.

"Yeah. That sick BDSM bastard tied her to the bed. Do you think we should try that, too, Fefe?"

"Shut the fuck up, Harold."

Harry just took another sip from the bottle and offered Niall some. He shook his head.

"A line?", Harry then asked. "You can’t say no to a bit of coke."

It was hard, but nothing compared to how hard it was to leave Morgan alone. To hurt her like that. Niall said no.

He handed Harry the bag, praying to the god he lost his faith in long ago that he’d put it in the safe as soon as possible and that it would all work out. And that he’d leave no traces, no sign, that nobody would ever know that what Harry hid had nothing to do with him. Maybe it would have been better not to let him play such an important part in this game. But Niall knew one thing for sure: Without Harry, he’d be dead already.

He put the gun in his pockets and hugged Fefe again. “Be strong.”, she whispered.

"I’ll try.", he said.

He wanted to shake hands with Harry, but his old friend forced him into a tight hug again. “I promise you, you’ll be okay. One day. I’m doing what I can.”

"I should have never-", Niall began again, but Harry interrupted him.

"You did.", he said. "And now there’s no turning back. I’m with you, bro, you hear me? I’m not gonna let you down. I told you a thousand times. Maybe one day I’ll understand what it’s like,- what you feel. I just hope I’ll make a smarter choice than you if it comes to the girl."

"You already did, mate.", Niall muttered, letting go of Harry. "Look behind you."

Harry turned around to see Fefe, then looked back at Niall. “Nah, come on, Niall, she’s just- I mean, I like her. A lot, but I’m not sure, I mean, she’s-“

"Shut the fuck up, Harold.", Niall repeated, a weak, exhausted smile on his face. "She’s perfect for you."

______________________________________________________

______________________________________________________

______________________________________________________

Harry didn’t accept a second No from Niall that day. He insisted he’d let Geoff take him home. Niall sat down in the back of the big car, leaned against the leather and closed his eyes.

"Your usual destination, Mr Horan?", Geoff asked, his voice cracking at the end.

"Mr Mitchell.", Niall corrected him, feeling a weird pain in his stomach. He was alarmed. Hearing his own name alarmed him. Geoff wasn’t supposed to call him that.

"Yeah, sure.", Geoff said, rolling up the partition without asking beforehand. They left the driveway. For some reason, Niall’s heart was racing like he actually sniffed a line with Harry. He tried to focus on the sunkissed hills rushing by, but he couldn’t. Muffled voices from the front were distracting him. He leaned forward and listened. Geoff was listening to the radio it seemed. Or was he talking on the phone?

"As said before, the LAPD is asking every citizen of Los Angeles and vicinity for caution and attention. We’re currently on the manhunt for two main suspects in a case of four to six murders and criminal assault. The names of the suspects are-"

Niall knew what the man on the radio would say. He had never felt such physical pain in his life before. He wanted to jump out of the car and run, get Morgan, run, run, run away with her. But that’s just what he already did. He was on the run already. And now they were after him. They were on their way. Coming to get him and Morgan.

"Morgan Charlotte Valentine and Niall James Horan."

It was ridiculous, but in that second, Niall thought of all the now grown up women who casually listened to the radio while folding their husband’s shirt, dropping their irons at the sound of his name. Suspect in a case of four to six murders: Niall Horan. Teenage heart throb, celebritiy and now a potential murderer.

Niall listened closely, unable to move, looking out of the window only to realise he never saw the houses by the roadside. This was not the way to the house in the forest. This was not the way back home.

It all happened within seconds. He heard a muffled “I got him”, jumped forward, banged on the partition, shouted at the top of his lungs. Geoff hit the pedal and Niall fell on his back, rolling to the side to grab the door knob, but the door was locked. The car was speeding up now. He was trapped.

He should have known better. The only thing he was now, stupidly, hoping for, was that Harry didn’t know about it. That Harry didn’t tell Geoff to do what he was about to. Niall wouldn’t let him. That was for sure.

He’d lost all sense of inhibitions a long time ago. He reached into the pocket, pulled out the gun, pointed at the partition and pulled the trigger. The car took a sharp turn to the left, Niall rolled against the seats, cussing in pain, but eventually, Geoff stopped.

Surprised by the blowback of the pistol, it took Niall a few seconds to get back to his senses. He had never pointed a gun at someone before, let alone blindly shot through a damn partition. He pointed the gun at the door handle and shot again. The door swang open, he crawled forward, falling out on his fours, jumped on his feet and ran around the car.

Geoff was in the front seat, his head on the steering wheel. He wasn’t dead, Niall could tell he was breathing. Still. Blood ran down his shoulders. That’s where he hit him. Niall didn’t hestitate. He opened the door and pulled him out. He was heavy, much heavier than Nathan or any other guy he’d ever beaten up, but the adrenaline in his sober veins made Niall a hundred times stronger than he usually was. He dragged Geoff across the asphalt they had stopped on, making sure he touched his shirt only. There were no other cars on this lonely road and a little forest nearby. Niall pulled the unconscious body of the injured driver into the bushes, making sure nobody could see them and hoping that nobody would find a damaged limousine on a roadside in Los Angeles suspicious enough to stop. It wouldn’t take too long anyway.

Maybe that’s how school shooters felt when they realised that there was no way the could ever get away with what they did. Maybe that was why they put the gun to their own head in the end. Niall didn’t want to shoot himself. But if they suspected him in a case of four to six murders, he might as well commit his first one. He was too fucking angry and he just didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care anymore. All that he could think of was saving Morgan. That was everything that mattered. He thought of her face and smiled. She had to be safe. He wouldn’t let Geoff deliver them to the police. That bloody fucking bastard had betrayed him. And he would do it again, no matter if he felt sorry now. The less witnesses there were, the better.

Niall thought back to a very certain, special night in his life.

He kicked Geoff in the stomach and he woke up, coughing, rolling around in the sand. As soon as he saw Niall above him, finger on the trigger, madness in the face, he tried to cover his with his big hands. “Please! Please don’t shoot me!”, he begged. The wound on his shoulder looked bad. Chances he’d bleed to death anyway were pretty high.

That one special night in May 2014. Back home. Thousands and thousands of people cheering his name. Never had he felt so much adrenaline pulsating in his back then still healthy body.

"You wanted to deliver me to the police.", Niall said in tone so calm it shocked himself.

"Y-yes.", Geoff cried, "That’s right. I was just scared! I’ve got a family, Mr Horan, Niall, I- I’ve got a family. And I was worried about Mr Styles! You are a murderer!"

"No, I’m not.", Niall said, rolling his eyes as he was getting a little impatient. With himself and with Geoff. It wasn’t as easy as it looked in the movies. He should have just shot him in the head while he was still unconscious. "But I’m gonna be one."

He could almost recall the faces of the girls in the first row as he stood there, with his homecountry’s flag wrapped around his shoulders. Proud. Free. Pure.

"Please! I promise I’ll drive you to your place and never mention you, I won’t say a single word, please Mr Horan, you can’t do this-" Geoff begged. Niall noticed he had peed his pants.

"Are you that afraid of me?", he asked, leaning forward to look Geoff straight into his eyes. "So afraid you piss your pants?"

What would the say if they saw him now? He could hear them chant. Niall. Niall. Niall.

"Please don’t shoot me-", Geoff begged. "I’ll do anything you want!"

Niall just rolled his eyes again. Why was it so fucking hard? He could just pull the trigger. Like in a video game. “Fuck.”, he cussed. “For fuck’s sake!”

He turned around, reaching into his pocket, desperately looking for a little bag of white powder. A part of him had been so proud he refused when Harry offered him some. But he really needed it now. He fucking needed it. There it was. A tiny little bag. His jeans were too fucking tight to pull them out easily. The moment he firmly grabbed it with two fingers, he felt a hand around his ankle, yanking his leg back so quickly he fell to the floor.

Geoff.

He never thought a concert in his homecountry and shooting someone would feel so similar.

"You fucking bastard!", Niall shouted, almost amused by how stupid Geoff was. That was the move he had been waiting for. He didn’t hestitate anymore. He rolled to the side, sat back up, pointed at Geoff’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

__________________________________________________

__________________________________________________

__________________________________________________

He got in the car. Left the fire behind. He drove. He even turned the radio on. There’d only been a few little blood stains on his shirt, but he burned it, too. His arm hurt, the cuts on his palms were still burning.

On the radio, they fucking played Johnny Cash.

And Niall sang. He turned up the volume and he sang.

He almost ran over an old couple, but soon he had found his way back to where he hid. Where he had to stay. Now that Geoff was dead nobody knew of that place anymore. It was still safe. He would apologise to Morgan and tell her that he killed this fucking bastard.

"I fell into a burning ring of fire", he sang in his silliest country voice, feeling the coke he sniffed before he set Geoff’s dead body on fire kick in, mixing up to a dangerous poison with the adrenaline in his veines. "I went down, down, down and the flames went higher. And it burns, burns, burns."

He stopped the car in front of the house in the forest, stumbled out and ran to the door. Unlocked it and yelled: “I killed him! Baby, I killed him! I’m a murderer now!” Waiting for her to yell at him and ask who the fuck he’s was talking about. He was so fucking high. He took too much. “I did it for you!”, he added. “Babe?”

He looked up to the gallery but you could barely see the bed from where he stood anyway.

"Babe! I’m so sorry, I’ll untie you now, we’re good. We’re safe for now." He wouldn’t tell her about the police first. No, she should be happy. He wanted her to feel good. Hoping she’d forgive him, he ran up the stairs.

"Morgan, babygirl, I-"

All he saw on the bed were the rops. Red stains. Fresh. On the sheets, on the floor. No knife. And nothing else.

"Babe?", he yelled, dropping the gun. "Morgan?"

It was useless. He didn’t have to shout anymore. There was no one there to hear him.

Morgan was gone.


	22. Killers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to tell the truth.

My feet hurt and my lungs are sore, but I have to keep running.

I want to turn around and go back to him, go back home, but I have to keep running.

I’m bleeding, but I have to keep running.

On and on and on. It feels like I’m flying, except for the sharp pain that strucks me everytime I touch the ground.

I can barely catch my breathe but I can’t let it catch up on me.

He doesn’t want me not to find out, he doesn’t want me to remember.

He doesn’t want me to remember.

But I think I do.

I know that he follows me. Not from the start, but now I know he does. And I want him to come find me, to wrap the ropes around my wrists again, to lock me up in this house called our home, to keep me safe forever. It’s all blurry in my head and I know it’s better off this way. I keep running on and on and on. First through the woods, now along the highway. Cars passing by with eyes behind the windows glaring at me. Do they know whether I run from or towards something?

I don’t. I don’t know if I flee or chase.

My left over sanity made me want to escape. I’m not his prisoner. I’m supposed to be his lover. It wasn’t as hard as we both thought it would be. Freeing myself. I was surprised by how good I am at it. I wasn’t afraid. I was determined. And once the rope had come off, I started running. Stumbled down the stairs. Threw the damn books he had gotten me, damn sure about my taste in literature, through the window and climbed out. My left over sanity, my human instinct. My will to rebel to keep my independence.

But my heart didn’t want to leave. A part of me is very scared to never see him again. It only takes a step to the left or a stone to trip over for me to get run over by one of these fast cars. It only takes a strange driver a bit of distraction to drift to the side and kill me. It only takes one of them to dial three digits, worried about the barefeet girl in the saggy shirt and this shirt only, and make them take me away to where whatever’s hiding in the mist in my head doesn’t want to go to.

Again.

There’s houses not too far, the border of the town. I keep running and as I arrive and jump on the boardwalk, passing people who seem to wonder less than I thougt they would, I slow down a little. I’m tempted to stop, but right now, it feels impossible. I’ve crossed the line. I went on a proper run back in London a few times. The first ten minutes are a dread, but at some point, you just get used to it and seem to have forgotten how to walk, let alone not move at all. And the force in my soul just keeps me going.

This is a less glamourous, less beautiful part of Los Angeles. It’s perfect for me. I hope the street I’m on will never end.

I know they turn their heads, I know they watch. They don’t know me, don’t know who I am, what I did. They probably know him, though. Do they see the marks he left on me? What if I had run from him like this the night we met?

A voice in my head tells me that if anything, he should’ve ran from me.

It happens so quick. I reach a rather lonely street corner after passing a few shops. I almost trip as I try to dodge so I don’t bump into a group of men a little older than me, but one of them reaches out, grabs my arm, yanking it back so hard I hear my bones crack. I scream out, pulled back by the force with which he stopped me.

"Oh, whither goest thou?", he laughs. The instinctive fear that kicked in the moment he dragged me back turns into pure rage. His friends, three men with mean faces, laugh at me as I lunge back to slam my fist straight into his face. Am I overreacting? No. I’m surprised by how well I targeted his nose. Now it’s his bones that crack.. I don’t care if they’re not serious. He hurt me. And I feel threatened. He lets go of me. I know I should run but there’s so much anger inside of me. The adrenaline keeps me going. My body fights while the voices inside my head tell me to run on. Because they are stronger than me. Because they’re four and I’m just a girl with sore lungs and a broken heart. But I don’t fucking care. One voice doesn’t agree with the others.

I only ever hear it in my dreams. Usually, when it raises in the daytime, everything blacks out. It’s the loudest, deepest, most powerful voice. It’s the voice of the monster. And it cheers. It wants to see these strangers bleed.

I scratch my attacker’s face, dragging my sharp nails down his cheeks, leaving red tracks on his pale skin. He screams out, still paralyzed by the punch and two of his friends step forward to grab my arms. I scream at the top of my lungs as they lift me off the ground.

"Fucking bitch!", one of them snarls into my ear.

"You’ll fucking regret that!", the other one says. He looks like Jack fucking Sparrow.

"Come on, she was just scared!", the third one says. "Let her down, man, let her go! Willie scared her! Let her down!"

He’s wrong. I’m not scared. I wonder why. And then I remember the knife in my panties. I didn’t know where else to put it under the big shirt I stole from Niall’s warderobe so I shoved it in the waistband by my hips. I kick my feet to make it harder for them to hold on to me, hit the bald one’s shin. He lifts his leg, unintentionally loosening his grip and I reach under the big shirt from behind, pulling the knife out.

I firmly grasp it and ram it straight into his crotch.

He screams out like a little girl and lets me go. Jack Sparrow gets distracted and I manage to shove the knife into his now unprotected side. He drops me. I jump back on my feet in a split second, raise the knife and approach the third guy.

"I didn’t do anything!", he says, protecting his genitals with his dirty hands. "Please!"

I wouldn’t mind cutting them off, too. This isn’t even self-defense anymore. I like what I’m doing. I like it way too much. It’s like a fucking rush. And the deep voice in my head wants me to black out, but I enjoy this, I enjoy being awake and fully aware this time. For the first time. Fuck. I feel nothing but rage.

The moment I lunge out to ram the blade into the third guy’s chest, my attacker with the broken nose grabs me by my hair and tosses me to the hot asphalt. Aren’t there any other people around at this streetcorner?

"You think you stand a chance, woman? Well, wait. And they say ‘Don’t hit women’. I can still kick them." This asshole thinks he’s funny. I’ve met guys like this before. Bastards that didn’t take a No when they tried to flirt with me at the clubs I used to go to. Too convinced of their big, manly ego. A whole other kind of asshole than Niall. My Niall. He would probably kill these men. Fuck. I shouldn’t think of him like this. Not now. It’ll only make me weaker.

But actually, the thought of his face does exactly the opposite for me now.

"Try.", I challenge my attacker. As he attempts to kick me in the ribs, I roll to the side and ram the knife straight into his foot. He screams out and I use his distraction to get back up, even though my back hurts like crazy now.

The bald guy is crying over his supposedly cut off testicles and the coward comforts him while Jack Sparrow comes closer again. I don’t feel like I’m done with them yet, but the second I inhale and prepare to attack another time, I hear the defeaning squeauling of big tires right behind me. The car door slams and I feel a big, warm hand on my arm.

"Get into the fucking car!", Harry says, unexpectedly calm. "Get into my goddam fucking car right now!"

I want to protest, but what can I say? No Harry, I want to slaughter these men first? I can’t say that. No matter how badly the voice wants me to tell Harry exactly that.

"I told you to get in the car!" Now, he shouts at me. He opens the door on the passenger side and literally shoves me into his Ferrari. Then, he turns to the men. "I hope you know that there will be consequences."

Did he think that I was the victim? Didn’t he see the knife in my hands? I wrap my palms around the blades, trying to suppress the urge to grab it firmer, to feel the same pain I caused Niall. Is Harry going to take me back to him? No. No! I don’t want that! I wanted to run away from him. I’m sick of playing this game of yes and no, hot and cold, truth and lie.

I reach out to open the door again, get out and run, but Harry was quicker. He’s already next to me, starts the engines and drives off with me so fast I get pushed back in the seat and feel the sensation of the rising speed in the pit of my stomach.

"Don’t take me to Niall.", I beg him.

Harry focuses on the car only. His frown is deep, his eyes are dark. His tan skin is oily, his hair a greasy mess.

"Harry, please.", I plead.

"Shut the fuck up.", he grumbles. "I’m serious. Morgan, I’m a patient person. I’m a good person. I love Niall. Niall is my best friend. No matter what happened. Niall is my friend. And I like you, too. But I know who you are. And I know what Niall is capable of. I know him so well. But if I’d known all this before, I would have never let his manager set all this up with me. Never. I would have never gotten myself into this if I knew the whole truth from the start."

"So you know, too.", I whisper.

"Yeah, I do. Are you telling me you don’t?"

I rub my eyes, leaving the knife in my lap. Harry quickly reaches out and tosses it to the back of the car. “Fuck.”, he cusses. “Fuck.”

"Harry, it’s okay.", I try to calm him down. Did the knife make him nervous? Maybe he did see what I’ve done to these men. I’m actually proud of me. I didn’t know I was this strong and brave. Would Niall be proud of me? I have to stop thinking about him.

"I’ll sue these guys, don’t worry.", Harry says as if this was right. I hurt them more than they hurt me.

"But I fought back.", I mention.

"Self-defense."

"But-"

"Self-defense." He turns to me and asks: "Do you know who I am?"

I can tell by the size of his pupils he probably doesn’t.

"I could sue the president.", he chuckles.

"Of course you could."

He’s just as cocky as Niall. Even worse. And fucking high. Fine. I’m surrounded by criminals and drug addicts. This is my life now. But it doesn’t feel new. What just happened… felt way too familar. I lean back and close my eyes, listening to the fast car, feeling the sunshine on my face. My entire body hurts. I crave a cold bath.

"Where are you taking me?", I ask Harry. "Please don’t take me back to Niall."

"I won’t.", Harry says. "You guys confuse me so much, fuck. Who the fuck are you? Sid and Nancy?"

"We got that before.", I reply.

"How are you so fucking calm?", Harry asks me.

"Numb.", I say. "Just numb."

This is the most honest I’ve been to him. I concentrate on the pain in my back and the quiet music on the radio. It’s a melancholic song, perfect for a cloudy, but hot day like today. For a split second, I consider openening the door and jump out of the driving car, but then, I’ve really waited long enough,- everything fades into darkness.

____________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________

____________________________________________________________

He feels like a hunter. Determined, adrenaline rushing through his veins that pop beneath his sunburnt, sticky skin. He’s not running. He’ll find her anyway. He never believed in soul mates. But hers is luring his. And he will find her. And take her back to where she belongs.

He wipes the tears from his eyes. Devastated yet hyper at the same time, he feels like he swallowed a whole new pill. A drug he’s never been on before and her name is pure fear.

There’s no doubt he’ll catch up on her or hold her again soon, but what if he doesn’t make it in time? That’s what he’s afraid of. The damn time. The whole fucking story they wrote began long before they even met. And the past scared him just as much as the future. Right now, all he can do is go on . And on, and on.

She left him. Of course she did. She didn’t know that he wasn’t trying to hold her back. He was just afraid she’d take the wrong path. If she needs him to let her run, he’ll let her run. But not without him. They’ve been running from the first night on, weren’t they? He knew it would happen. He knew he’d lose her. But only temporary. That’s the thing with time. Nothing lasts forever. Everything is temporary. And that’s both a good and a bad thing.

And he doesn’t want to be one of those bastards that claim they know better than the girls they love. That claim they just know what’s best. But in this case, he really does. Morgan doesn’t have the slightest idea. She doesn’t know the cops are after her. She doesn’t even know that they know her already. He just hopes that he knows one thing. That he loves her. No matter what, from the bottom of his pained heart, he loves her. And he doubts that any men that has ever walked this world loved a girl as much as he loves her. He knows that it’s a silly, stupid, childish thought. But he killed for her. And he’d do it again. Everything to keep her safe. Everything to save her. Everything for her, her, her, and her only.

The kind of addiction you can’t get over with a substitute, the kind of addiction that gives you the worst kind of cold fucking turkey everytime you only think of having to do without the drug. He knows that the rush he feels is not the coke. It’s the blood of the man and the lack of sorrow, the fact the only thing that feels real to him anymore is wanting her.

He reaches the highway and he knows that she’s been here. It’s like her naked feet left tracks on the ashphalt. Did they find her? He just going. A man with a blood stained shirt running along the border of the highway will most likely attract too much attention. Amused by a memory of a certain era in the life of the only man who hopefully looked for her, too, he takes off his shirt, still half running, half walking, rolls it and wraps it around his head to keep the sweat from tickling his face. A topless man will attract attention, too, but another kind.

He knows he’s on the right way. He’s like wolf. He can almost smell her. He’ll catch her. He’ll find her. And he’ll take her back to where she belongs. And he will fucking kill everyone who tries to take her away from him again.

And in fact, there is a blood stain on the white line that divides the asphalt from the sand. And he knows it’s hers. He tasted it before. He just knows.

That’s when his phone rings.

"Yeh?", he gasps. "Harry?"

"I found her.", Harry dryly says.

"Morgan?"

"No, Meryl Streep."

"This is not the time for joking, Harry.", Niall snarls. "Did you find Morgan?"

"Yes."

Niall feels the sweet prickle of relief come over his body. He stops walking and inhales deeply, letting the air out of his burning lungs with a happy sigh. “Thank you, mate. Thank you so much.”

"You can thank me later, man. You have to get here as fast as you can, man. I’m fuckin’ scared. She’s unconscious. But she’s talking. It’s like she’s in a weird trance and I’m really uncomfortable.", Harry whispers. "Please hurry."

"Where did you bring her? Don’t tell me she’s at your place.", Niall replies. "Don’t fucking tell me you took her to your house, Harry."

"Where else should I have taken her except for a goddam asylum, Niall?", Harry snarls.

"Harry, they’re after her. The fucking cops. There’s a goddamn manhunt going on, why do you think I called you to find her?"

"I don’t know man, I don’t question the weird shit you ask me to do, I stopped questioning you when you came up with that thing during, um, Better Than-"

"Fuck.", Niall interrupts him.

"I just follow your instructions.", Harry defends himself. "Like I always did."

"Yeh. Good boy.", Niall ironically snarls. Harry couldn’t have known better. But now, he has to hurry even more.

"How can I get to your place?", Niall then asks. "I cannot take a taxi."

"What about Geoff? He’s not back yet, I thought you were with him anyway?"

Niall swallows hard. Chances Geoff can take him to Harry’s place are not exactly high since his corpse is rotting at the border of a lonely road at the other side of the town.

"Geoff is busy.", Niall says.

"What the fuck. It’s his fucking job to-"

"Harry, for fuck’s sake, come and pick me up, I’ll text you my location.", Niall hisses.

"Fefe’s gonna come, I don’t want to leave her alone with Morgan."

"Fefe and her get along very well.", Niall says. "I think it would be-"

"No.", Harry insists. "You take care of your girl the way you think you have to, I take care of mine."

"Morgan is not a fucking monster.", Niall says. "She’s just exhausted and-"

"Man, did she ever talk in her sleep when you were next to her?", Harry protests. "That shit is fucking mental."

"Yeh, I did.", Niall says. "But-"

"No. Fefe is on her way already. Text me your location, I’ll send it to her."

"Harry, I really think-"

"Listen to me Niall, I’ve been playing under your rules for long enough. Trust. Me. And no, I won’t touch your precious little psycho girl."

"Thanks Mate."

"Now hang the fuck up, Ireland, we’ve got some murder we to get away with."

Niall does what he’s told, something that goes completely against his nature. He hangs up, texts Harry his location and waits. Impatiently watching the cars rush by he wonders if any of them think they’re viewing a Fata Morgana by the roadside, the image of the older, drug addicted version of a fallen popstar. He thinks of the easy weekends in London’s clubs, all the middle aged women that wanted pictures with him, all the older men that rolled their eyes at him, well aware that this was the man their daughters cried about years ago.

All the girls he fucked.

And then Emily. The dead girl. The stain on the shirt she saw him wearing. The face in the newspapers. The mysterious case. Her death, the return of something that’s never been dead. Emily Hastings, Amber, the number they put on her toe in the damn morgue.

The last girl he fucked before he got with Morgan.

Before he realised there was no other girl in this world that he wanted to fuck as bad as her. He had always quickly lost interest in girls, even if he kept them for a month or two, but with her it was different. She was the one he had always been waiting for. The right girl. Even if everything about her was just wrong.

She wasn’t the light at the end of the tunnel. She was the one to blow out the last match and stay in the darkness with him forever. Only the two of him. He didn’t mind. He loved her.

A car stops. Not the Ferrari he expected. It’s a black Hummer. Exactly his taste in cars. Big and heavy. He sees Fefe inside, she waves at him to make him hurry not to clog the traffic.

He opens the door, jumps in and she hits the gas pedal with her high heels.

"How many cars does this piece of shit have.", he grumbles instead of properly greeting her. She laughs and it’s easing him. She’s so calm. She’s always so calm. How does she do that? She’s such a humble and peaceful being and Niall hates himself for the stereotype he had still branded girls like her with only a few months ago. She was such a smart and special person. Harry was a fucking idiot not to have married her already.

If Morgan ever forgives him and gets over the truth he now really has to tell her, he’ll marry her, too.

But first of all, he has to be honest with her. And that’ll be the hardest and most horrible thing he’ll ever have to do in his goddamn life.

"Obviously not enough not to fire Geoff.", Fefe laughs. "Morgan is safe, by the way."

"Thank you.", Niall says and clears his throat. She shouldn’t have brought up Geoff. Now the thinks of him. And thinking of stuff like that around a person that claims to be psychic might not be the best idea. An in fact, as Fefe turns her head and catches a glimpse of Niall’s glassy eyes, she raises her brows and asks: "Are you okay, Niall? What happened?"

Niall wants to lie, he wants to sugarcoat the truth and keep it from Fefe. He doubts he’s able to confess that he is a murderer anyway. This is just ridiculous. Niall Horan. A murderer. “Fuck.”, he cusses and buries his face in his bloody hands. “Fuck.”

"Niall, what happened?", Fefe asks, turning down the volume of the radio. Did she intentionally choose a station with soothing panflute music? She was truly caring.

"Niall.", Fefe repeats, her voice steady and quiet. Niall clenches his fists.

"I’m ruinin’ yer seats.", he mumbles. "I should put on my shirt again and-"

"Did you kill him?", Fefe asks. She doesn’t sound shocked. Not in the slightest. Did she read it in his mind or did she just guess? Niall’s never liked any of that supernatural shit. He had watched Harry Potter for Emma Watson and the actual show Supernatural for Dean’s humour and the soundtrack.

"What?", he asks, his voice is cracking.

"You did.", Fefe says. "But it was probably necessary."

Niall bites his lip as hard as he can, until he tastes blood.

"The cops know.", he then whispers. "Geoff wanted to take me to the police."

"Oh, fuck.", Fefe sighs. "Fuck, Niall. I,- they know? How? So quick? I thought that… Maybe.. You hid so well and… You did so well, too, I just… Thought that maybe you’d get through with it all and,-"

"We will get through with it.", Niall says, not too convinced of his own words.

"Well, you have to tell her.", Fefe sighs. "I know you think she’s not ready and I wanted to respect that, but she has to know. She already does. And she’s getting closer, you know? I think she starts to remember. Last time I talked to her, after she thought she had recieved this call, I told her that-"

"What did you tell her?", Niall hisses, taking his eyes off the road to look at Fefe.

"I just said that you’re not trying to keep her from finding out, but from remembering. That’s all I said. Niall, I have never met a couple like the two of you and I would never ever want to ruin this. I wish I knew how to save the two of you. I would do it. I barely know you, but-"

"Thank you.", Niall interrupts her. He doesn’t want to hear it. He can’t deal with that right now.

All he wants is to get back to Morgan and wrap his arms around her, apologise to her. And take her to another place. If they can’t stay in Los Angeles, they’ll go to New York. If they can’t stay there, they’ll go to fucking Hawaaii. If they can’t stay there, they’ll go to Sydney. To Moscow. Stockholm. Anywhere, as long as they’re together. And safe. He’s got the money. And he could try and do without coke. He could try. He will try for her. Anything to keep her by his side.

"This is so fucking crazy.", he says, almost laughing at how fucked up the situation is.

"Literally.", Fefe agrees. "But I guess that’s what true love is like."

"Harry loves you.", Niall says. "He doesn’t know yet but he does."

Fefe blushes and presses her lips together. She looks like a decent little school girl now. She’s so pretty. Despite the fear, Niall smiles.

"Do you know that, when-", he stops, trying to find the right words, but it’s so hard, "that feeling when everything is just too much, too overwhelming, that something in your brain just goes click and you’re in something like mental mode? And you just go on, go on, fueled by adrenaline? And everything is too fucking insane to believe, too fucked, too weird, but you love it?"

"I felt this way when I first kissed Harry, I guess.", Fefe says.

"Don’t be gross.", Niall laughs. "He’s disgusting."

Fefe just giggles.

"Well I’ve felt this way since I met her. And even worse when I find out who she really is. It was like a goddamn wrecking ball hit me right in the face,- I considered breaking up but no, there was no turning back. I loved her from the first morning in my flat on. And I’m always like,- you know what I’m like. I’m stubborn. And I like to fuck her face like she’s a cheap teen tart but fuck, I love her so much."

"Don’t be gross.", Fefe mocks him. But she smiles. And so does Niall.

"One day, we’re all going to be okay.", she adds and reaches out for his hand to give it a tight squeeze, then let go again. "I promise."

Two practial strangers in a too warm car, heading to what’s supposedly going to be a battlefield very soon, two scared, guilty, confused, absolutely overwhelmed strangers,- but they’re smiling. And for as long as they’re driving, that’s all that matters.

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

________________________________________________

Harry’s sitting on the other couch, watching me with big eyes. He seems scared. I don’t know why. He surely didn’t see what I did to these men. The knife is still in the car. He’s watching my ever move. He gave me two of the countless bananas he keeps in his kitchen. There was no food in there except them and a bit of other fruit. “Do you ever eat?”

"Ever heard of delivery?", he asked me, putting the bananas in my hand. "These will help you."

That was about the silliest thing I ever heard and if I wasn’t so damn weirded out by his suspicious behaviour and the fact I felt like an animal in the cage now that I was back at his house, I would have laughed. But I just took the bananas and walked back into the living room.

If I’d known I’d spend my summer at Harry Styles’ mansion, I would have brought Lucy. Or even my mum. Maybe we could have talked everything out. She had a thing for luxury, she had always read those magazines that were mainly pictures of impressive villas and expensive buildings. I think of what Niall said about her.

He’s not around now.

"Harry?", I ask. He flinches. What’s wrong with him? Why does he act like that?

"Yes, Morgan?", he replies, trying too hard to sound calm.

"Can I use your phone?"

"What for? I doubt it’s a good idea we order food, do you want some more fruit?", he asks.

"No, I’m not hungry. I just want to call my mum."

"No.", Harry says, clenchings his fists.

"Please, I promise I’ll keep it short, I just have to check up on her, I-"

"No.", Harry repeats. His voice is shaky and insecure. I’m so tempted to ask him what’s wrong. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe it’s me. Maybe he can hear the voices, too.

That’s when I hear car doors slam. I jump on my feet and turn around. “Who is that?”

"Niall.", Harry answers. "Niall and Fefe."

"I thought Fefe was sleeping upstairs!", I shout. "You lied to me!"

"Stay. Calm. Morgan.", he says, raising his hands, as he slowly gets up and walks to the hallway to open the door and welcome the person I both want to see the most and the least.

"I told you not to call Niall, I-"

"Shut up.", Harry says. He seems so eased that Niall’s coming. I’m not. I’m very unsettled.

"You don’t tell me when to shut up.", I hiss. I walk to the windows and turn my back on the room, watching the sunlight’s reflection dance on the surface of the tourqouise pool water. There’s seagulls flying in circles up in the sky. A cloud covers the sun. There’ll be a storm later, I’m sure.

"She’s awake.", Harry says. I hear high heels on the floor. Fefe. And then,- "Move, for fuck’s sake.", That’s the voice that will always give me stomach pains. In a horribly good way. The only voice that’ll always be louder than the ones in my head. I can hear him coming closer, jogging down the hallway to get to the living room.

"Morgan."

I hate him for saying my name like a prayer. There’s despair in his voice, desire and a question, too. I know which one.

I’m not turning around. I keep my eyes on the sky, not even blinking.

"I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have locked you up again. Shouldn’t have tied you up, I shouldn’t have left you there. I am so sorry, Morgan. I know I fucked up. I constantly do. And it’s okay if you don’t forgive me."

I wonder if Harry and Fefe are listening. I didn’t hear them following Niall into the living room and I doubt that Fefe would secretly try and overhear our conversation. Maybe she took Harry up to the bedroom to give Niall and me some privacy. But I could perfectly do without it. Feeling his eyes in my back makes it hurt even worse than it already does from fighting the strangers on the lonely streetcorner. And it’s so hard not to give in, so hard not to close my eyes and let the power he’s got over me drag me to him, back into the arms I ran from hours ago. I feel trapped. Right now, I wish the voice of the monster could guide me. But it’s always been very quiet in Niall’s presence.

"Morgan, please.", he says and I know that he’s crying. "I am sorry for putting you through all this. I would say that… I would say that I shouldn’t have called you after you left me that morning. When everything still seemed okay. But I couldn’t keep myself from not going after you. I fell for you, so quick, so hard, it’s worse than any drug I’ve ever tried, fuck, and I told you so often so you might as well not believe it anymore, especially since I…" He inhales, halting, then contniues. "Especially since I treated you this way. But it was always about keeping you safe. It was always about protecting you. Because I love you."

"Protect me?", I dryly ask. "If it’s ever been about protecting me, you should have really let me go. Should have never kissed me. Should have never fucked me and asked me who owned me, knowing I’d say you do. You and only you. You greedy fucking bastard. It’s too late and you know it."

"What do you mean?"

"I’m yours and you know that. And I doubt I can ever really run from you. You send your useless prick of what he calls a best friend after me to find me and I don’t even have to look at you to tell you were chasing me, too. I felt it. For fuck’s sake, I felt it. And I hate you so much, Niall, I hate you so much. I hate you for keeping this one big fucking secret from me and I swear, I will find out what it is. I will find out today. You’ll tell me or I’ll be gone for real. And you give me the fucking file. Or I will be gone. Even if it hurts me. I hate you for that. But I also hate you for trying so hard because you’re convinced that it’s the best for me. For being so determined to make me feel good. I hate you for the way you touch me and kiss me and mark me and I hate you for showing me that you need me just as much because it makes me want to care for you just as much as you care for me and I hate you for being everywhere I go, for being the only one that knows how to make the voices shut up, the only one who fucks me like that, no, not just in the literal sense, Niall, you fuck with my head. You’re in my brain and in my veins and under my skin and in my aching bones, you’re everywhere. I’ve never felt this way. Ever before in my whole life. I’m not used to this. I’m not okay with this. It hurts. And you just keep on hurting me. You smile at me and tell me that-" I can’t hold back the tears in my eyes anymore. My voice cracks and it takes all of my self control to spit out those words that weigh so heavy on my dry tongue, "You tell me that you don’t want to hurt me, but you do. But you know what’s worse? The fact that I know that I hurt you even more. I doubt your life’s been like that before you met me."

"Well, it wasn’t.", he says and I know that he’s smirking despite his own tears. "But I don’T care."

"That night you came and kissed my scars, Niall, I-"

"Look at me.", he says. "Please look at me, Morgan. Please."

I’m sobbing now. I can’t hold it in. I slowly turn around, the choir in my head protesting on the top of their little lungs. I keep my head down, staring at his dirty shoes only.

"Look at me."

It’s like seeing him for the first time. His half naked body is sunburnt and covered in sand, his palms are swollen from the cuts, his hair sticks to his forehead. The bags under his eyes seem violet. I can see every vein on his arms, every pearl of sweat running down his chest.

"No matter"- He clears his throat as if it helped him not to start crying again, "No matter how much you’ll hurt me, I will know that you don’t mean it because you can’t help the- you can’t keep the monster in control, but I will be there for you and fight your fucking demons until the day I fucking die, okay? I’m not gonna leave you now and I don’t want you to leave me either. I won’t leave you when the scars on your arms are all healed up. I won’t leave you when your dimples turn into actual wrinkles. I won’t leave you, babe, and if we go completely fucking crazy together we will rot in a padded cell together, I don’t fucking care, okay? I am not mad at your for running away. It was natural. It was my fault. I scared you."

"You always did.", I whisper.

He never used the term ‘monster’ before. And I just know that he does now because he read my files.

"You scare me, too. But I don’t care, Morgan. Because I love you and I always will and I know that you love me, too. Do you love me?"

He walks closer, slowly, carefully, stepping into the light.

I can’t say it, but I nod. “Yes.”, I whisper. “Yes, I do.”

He swallows and smiles. The brighest fucking flagship smile that I have ever seen. This insane piece of shit. What if I’m just dreaming? What if I’m really that crazy and none of this actually happens? Like the other things I think saw and did during my blackouts?

I reach out to touch him as if it could convince me that he’s real. What if I wake up in my childhood room? What if I fell asleep looking at his picture, dreaming of being with him even though he wasn’t even my favourite back then? And now, in this utopia, I am willing to kill for him. And die for him. And do everything for him. Everything to keep him with me. Everything for him, him, him and him only.

He watches my hand slide down his warm chest, shivering under my touch.

"If you want to shout at me, go ahead. Hit me if you want to. Take it out on me, Morgan, I don’t care. I will love you no matter what, in the most fucked up and impure way ever, do what you want, I-"

I shut him up with a kiss. A kiss that makes me so weak it reminds me of our first one. It’s just better. It tases like hope. In the middle of a disaster. I can sense that there’s so much wrong and I know that something bad will happen, but this kiss tastes like hope. And like love, sorrow and the brash lust I inappropriately feel beneath the veil of relief.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against his body. I taste blood. I moan, tilt back and gasp for air, but he just presses his lips back on my half open mouth, groaning, too, lifting the big shirt to grab my ass and squeeze it so hard it hurts, but I like it. Of course I do.

I think what makes lovers want to fuck so badly after an argument is the feral need to both prove dominance and submission in both completely different and similar way than in their fight, to prove that they still want each other just as much but also equally own each other’s bodies and I want Niall so much, so fucking much. I close my eyes and lean back so he can kiss my neck. He puts his greedy mouth right on my sweet spot, sucking, groaning, nibbling on my skin a little.

I feel led by my most savage human instincts only. I hastily reach for the belt of Niall’s jeans, but he steps back. “No, Morgan, we can’t-“, he says. “I can’t do this, you’re mad at me, I- We don’t have the time, we have to-“

"Shut the fuck up.", I hiss. "And fuck me."

Of course that makes him smile. He’s shaking his head as if he found it hard to believe how needy I got, how wild his kisses drove me.

"Are you sure, babe?", he asks. "Harry and Fefe are upstairs and-"

"So?", I open his belt and tug on the waistband so his jeans drop to the floor. "You just told me I could do what I want, didn’t you?"

"And what do you want to do?", he chuckles, sucking air through his teeth as I tease him with my hand on the swelling bulge in his tight boxers.

"I want you to fuck me. I want you to make me cum and show me how sorry you are."

Niall licks his lips and nods. “I will. Whatever you want, Morgan.”

"Then stop talking.", I hiss, really enjoying this little swap of roles. He pulls down my panties, I step out of them. Then, he lifts me, carrying me to the sofa I was sleeping on before. He’s about to put me down on my back, but I wrap my legs around his waist and whisper: "I’m gonna be on top for now."

He nods and chuckles, obviously approving of this and then sits down on the couch, pulling down his boxers to place me on his lap. He grabs my face and kisses me hard. “You’re in my brain, too, Morgan. And in my veins and in my heart and in my bones as well. I just thought you should know.”

"I already do, Niall.", I say. "That’s why it’s so hard."

"Something else is, too.", he chuckles and I don’t hestitate to wrap my fingers around his cock and buck my hips so I can run its tip along my slit, covering it in my juices before I sit down on it, taking his full length in. It feels so good. He keeps his eyes locked with mine, gasping as he feels himself sliding in.

"Fuck." He slaps my ass and I begin to roll my hips just right, making him grind on my g spot. "You feel so good inside, babe, I love that."

I almost laugh at him for that. “You’re fucking silly, Niall.”, I say.

"Uh-uh." He shakes his head. His cheeks are red again now, his eyes sparkle with arousal. "I love that. I love your tight little cunt." He bites his lip, a freakish expression striking his flushed face, then he slaps me again, growls like a goddamn dog and asks: "D’ya love fucking yourself on my cock?"

"Mhmm.", I moan, going a little faster. I know I’m not gonna take too long to cum. I could possibly cum before Niall. And right now, I don’t care if he cums at all. I love using him like that for once, it pleases my ego. Just because the voices make me feel like I’ve lost control of it doesn’t mean it’s not just as big as Niall’s. "Yes."

"Good.", he groans. "Good girl. Usin’ me as your own fucktoy this time, huh?"

I just laugh and reach out for his left wrist, leading his hand from my ass back to the front, placing it on my mound. He knows what to do.

"Someone needs to cum real bad I see.", he mutters as he begins to rub my clit. It feels so good and I’m already clenching around him. This went faster than ever before. I love it. "God, yes, Morgan, ride me." He slaps my ass again, really hard this time. It just turns me on even more. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his head against my chest, doing what he told me to until my orgasm builds up and I moan, not caring if Harry or Fefe hear me, feeling my walls contract. I twitch and throb, breathing heavily into Niall’s sweaty hair. He’s still circling his raw finger on my clit and I thrust against his palm, riding out my migh. He digs the nails of his free hand into the flesh of my ass and bucks his hips, too.

"Let me, too.", he pleads.

"Should I?", I tease him, barely able to speak.

"You can’t torture your man like that, babe, please-", he chuckles, already throbbing inside of me. He pulls his hand back and puts it on my lower stomach, presses it down, feeling himself inside of me. I can tell by the look in his eyes that it turns him like crazy. "I’m so close, fuck."

I keep riding him until he squints, cusses and bucks his hips so hard it hurts me. In a nice way. I attempt to get off of his lap, but he shakes his head. “Wait.”, he asks. “I want you to keep it inside for a little longer, yeh.”

"Does your sorry little soul need that?", I whisper and he just nods.

"Keep my cum in, baby."

I kiss his forehead. I wish I could say it. Because it’s all I feel right now.

That’s when I hear voices. Unfamilar voices. And they’re not in my head.

"What is this?", I ask.

"What is what, baby girl?" He’s still dizzy and probably really tired now. He hasn’t told me yet but he really doesn’t have to. I know he’s been chasing me, I know he’s been running.

"There’s someone outside."

Immediately alarmed, Niall lifts me off his lap. I tiptoe to the place I left my panties and quickly put them on again. Niall does the same with his boxers. “Morgan, come here.”, he quietly says. “Come here, Morgan.”

I walk back to him and he takes my arm to pull me across the room, into a dark corner by bar. And I know why. In this angle, nobody by the windows could see us.

And then, the door bell rings.

Only a few seconds later, I hear Harry running down the stairs. “Are you guy okay?”, he asks, lurking into the living room. He sees us and nods. He’s only wearing boxers, too. He’s probably done the same with Fefe as Niall and me. Fefe follows him. She’s still wearing her dress, but her hair looks a mess.

Harry walks down the hallway. I know he probably looks through the little spy hole in his door. “Fuck.”, I can hear him whisper. And he’s so quiet, but his voice fills the entire house.

"Niall, Morgan, come here real quick. Fefe, you talk to them. Tell them I’m still upstairs. I’ll take Niall and Fefe downstairs. Lead them into the living room. Distract them for as long as you can."

Who are they? The only likely answer to that is the cops. Did they see me fighting the men? Why are they here?

Niall grabs my hand and quickly drags me to the hallway. Fefe looks at me and mouths “You’ll be okay”. I want to believe her, but I’m scared.

"Niall, what’s going on?", I ask.

"The cops.", Harry whispers. "Come."

He opens a door to his right that leads into the basement. Niall doesn’t hestitate to lift me again, carrying me down the stairs so we can go faster. “Hurry!”, Harry hisses.

The door bell rings again and I can hear a big fist bang against it, too.

"Wait, Fefe!", Harry hisses.

Of course his basement isn’t any less luxury. Just dark. There’s a sauna and the door to the garage. And an indoor pool as well. Of course.

"Follow me.", he says, waving at Niall and me to make him go faster.

"Niall, what’s happening?", I want to know but Niall doesn’t say anything. I can tell that he’s scared. Very scared.

Harry opens a door at the end of the big basement room that leads into something that looks like a pantry. There’s mainly vine in here. Luxurious, heavy chromed cupboards.

With all his strength, Harry pulls on of them to side, tapping on the wall behind it. It’s a door that slowly swings open.

"Here.", Harry says.

"Is that a panic room?", I ask.

"Not really. It’s not exactly against criminals. It’s for the criminal in me." , he explains.

The bell rings again. And now, Fefe has to open the goddamn door. I can’t understand what exactly they’re saying, but she sounds friendly. And I guess that’s a good thing.

Behind the door, there’s another door. With an actual digital combination lock. Harry types the digits and for some reason, they amuse me.

"Are you for real, Styles?", Niall asks. "1309?"

"Shut up.", Harry says. "I’m not talking to you. Do you know how mad I am? You fucking led the cops to my house."

The second door opens and he pulls on Niall’s arm, shoving us into the darkness. He’s really fucking angry. He points at Niall and hisses: “Do you know how many fucking drugs they’ll fucking find? Do you know in what big fucking trouble I am because of you, Niall? Do you have any idea what you’re making me do for you? You’ll pay for that, Horan, I swear.”

Hee slams the door. I can hear him close the first one too, pushing the cupboard back on its place.

And then, it’s quiet.

"There has to be a light in here.", Niall whispers, carefully putting me down on the floor. At least Harry was weird enough to acually put a rug in this little room. It’s very cold in here, which is soothing for a change, but I don’t like it. I never liked small spaces. I don’t like it at all.

Niall keeps my hand in his as he touches the walls around us, searching for a switch. And he finds it. It’s a violet lamp, dyeing the room pink. I look around. And see a whole bunch of guns on the wall. A goddamn samurai sword. And bags and bags of coke and weed and stuff that looks like the shit they cooked on Breaking Bad.

"Fuck.", Niall says. "He wasn’t kidding."

"This is… intimidating.", I whisper. "I didn’t expect that."

"Well I guess none of us are the way that they seem.", Niall sighs. He’s shaking. He obviously doesn’t like all these weapons around.

Fuck! What if the cops find the bloody knife in Harry’s Ferrari? With my fingerprints on it?

"Niall!", I cry out.

"Shh!", he says. "Not so loud, Morgan, please! What is it?"

The room is about as big as a larger walk in closet. The walls are padded, too. White rug, white walls. It reminds me way too much of a too familar place. Except that there were no guns hung up in a golden frame. And no swords. Sadly.

"When I ran from you", I begin, "four men attacked me. One of them grabbed my arm. They weren’t seriously threatening me, but I was scared."

Niall clenches his jaw and I know he’s angry. “Who were they?”, he asks. “They touched you?”

"Yes.", I say. "I didn’t know them of course. They looked a little weird. They were about thirty. Seemed like a poor part of the town, but I don’t know. I just need to tell you that I attacked them. I fought them."

"Self-defense.", Niall says. "That’s my girl." He leans in to kiss me.

"I actually injured them.", I say.

"I killed Geoff."

I step back and look at Niall’s face. That fucker is smiling. “I killed Geoff.”, he repeats. “Fuck, it’s good to say that. I killed Geoff, baby. I killed him.”

I wait for the shock to kick in, but I don’t feel anything.

"Am I supposed to be proud of you?", I hestitantly ask.

Niall bites his lip. “No. But. Listen. The cops are up there and- fuck.” He turns around but I reach out for his arm. I need him to look at me. I don’t feel comfortable in this little room, in the pink light. I need him to look at me. I need him to look at me.

As he turns around, something in his eyes has changed. It’s not the fact he’s only wearing his boxers, it’s something about the expression in his suddenly pale, but determined face that makes him look naked. “Baby, Harry told me you were talking in your sleep.”

"Oh, that’s why he seemed so terrified.", I say, leaning against the wall to feel a little smaller in order to adjust to the room.

"And at the door, he told me you were asking him for a favor."

"I asked him to let me call my mum. And he wouldn’t let me.", I explain. That’s how it was.

"Yes. That’s the point.", Niall says. He seems so nervous. And now I know what it is. This is it. This is the conversation I was waiting for so long.

This. Is my explanation.

"Why did you say she was dead?", I straight forward ask. "Why do you want me to stay out of touch with her?"

"I hate to do this.", Niall mutters, tearing up again. "Morgan, I should have known I couldn’t play pretend with you forever. And when I read your file, I was tempted to leave you, but I already told you that I couldn’t and-"

"What has my file to do with my mother?", I ask.

And then, I hear it. Two things at once.

Footsteps outside. Niall hears them, too.

And the dark voice. For the real time in Niall’s presense ever. And it tells me: “You know.” Why is it so clear all of sudden? Am I really so close to finding out? Or, like Fefe said- so close to remembering?

"Fuck.", Niall hisses, reaching out to turn off the lights. He pulls me into his arms and presses his hand on my mouth. "Keep your mouth shut."

"Niall,-", I mutter under his palm, but he just presses it down harder.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut for now, Morgan.", he whispers into my ear.

I hear the voices of Harry and two other man. So close, so fucking close. And my own heart racing in my chest, beating up to my throat. I’m afraid that they can hear, it too. Niall’s sweating like crazy, panting into my ear, making me shiver.

"Shhhh.", he hushes me, rocking back and forth a little. "Shhhh."

Under other circumstances, I would have gotten a panic attack or blacked out and Niall knows that, which is why he’s trying so hard to keep me calm. I try to relax and close my eyes.

"Is that your pantry?", one of the strange men asks in a heavy southern accent.

"Yeah, sort of.", Harry says. "Got all kinds of vine here."

"Nice.", the other man says. I know he’s standing right next to the secret door.

"Okay, that’s it.", the southern man says. "Nothing to find here. Thank you, Mr Styles. Can we check the upper floor now?"

"You’re always welcome.", Harry says in a perfect fake friendly tone. "Of course, let’s go."

Niall and I wait for the sound of the feet walking away to fade and then, he lets go of me, exhaling loudly. “Fuck. That was… That was intense.”

"It was.", I gasp.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah.", I say. "Just. Just tell me what,-… Just answer my question now, Niall."

Niall turns on the lights again, looking at something in the corner of the secret room. “Perfect.”, he snarls.

When I see what he’s staring at, my heart skips a beat. It’s my file.

"This fucker really kept it here.", Niall mutters. "Fucking asshole. I told him to take it to the damn bank and-"

"Niall, why is my file so fucking important in this whole story?", I ask.

He rolls his eyes and grins. “What do you think, silly?”

"I don’t know. Niall, I don’t know. I’m just scared. I’m scared of you and I wonder what you did that brought us here. I wonder why he had to run away. Why we had to get fake IDs. And how you’re planning on fixing this now that cops are after me for injuring these men."

"Oh, that’s not the reason they’re here.", Niall says.

I can tell that the only way he can tell me the truth is by smiling while he does it because it hurts him too much to stay serious. And that’s scaring me.

"Then why? Give me my file."

He picks it up from the floor and I reach out and touch the leather, pull on it, but he won’t let go.

"Niall.", I hiss. "Let me see it."

"I can’t.", he whimpers. "I fucking can’t do this to you, babe."

"Yes, you can.", I protest and pull harder. "You have to let me know, finally. Now that the cops are here! We’re in danger!"

"We’re in bigger danger than you can even imagine.", he just mumbles. "Promise me two things before you open this file, Morgan, won’t you?"

His voice is shaking, a single tear runs down his stubbly cheek. I nod. “What?”

"Don’t hurt yourself. And don’t hurt me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?", I laugh.

The voice says: “You know.”

I finally manage to pull the file out of his hands. I stumble back, pressing it against my chest. It’s thicker than I thought it would be. Full of notes. And pictures, it seems. I keep my eyes on Niall as I sit down and cross my legs, putting the file in front of me. I’m shaking. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. For so long. I’ve wanted to know what Doctor Rossdale wrote about me ever since. I don’t yet know how looking at my file will help me understand why we’re running away, but I can sense that a part of me does. That part knows too very well.

I put my hair into a bun.

Niall leans against the wall, towering over me. “I love you.”, he says. “I hope you’ll understand. I played with you for too long.”

"How is my file gonna answer my question?", I ask.

"What is your question, babe?" He’s so nervous. It’s unbearable.

"Besides Geoff", I begin, still puzzled by how this doesn’t affect me at all, "did you kill anyone? Is this why we’re running away, Niall? Are you a killer?"

"Morgan.", he says in a low voice. "Morgan, baby, do you really not know?", he asks as if he was talking to a alittle child. "Babygirl, do you really not understand? Doesn’t it dawn on you now?"

I shake my head. A part of me doesn’t agree with that.

"No, I don’t.", I say, opening the file. Just notes on the first page. My data. Some terms I don’t understand. "You still haven’t answered my question, Niall. Are you a killer?"

"Shit.", he cusses, running his fingers through his hair. "I can’t take this. I can’t watch you shatter in front of me. I can’t do this."

"I’m not shattering, what the fuck is wrong with you. Do you think reading my file will make me want to cut or something? It’s not like I don’t know I’m mentally ill. If anything, it will change my feelings towards my therapist. Maybe she wrote some mean shit about me. And some things I don’t already know about myself.", I say as I turn to the next page. There’s a picture of me. It’s old but I’ve recently just seen it.

And I know where. On the fake ID Niall got for me.

I look up at him again and ask a third time: “Are you a killer?”

"No.", he replies, keeping his eyes on my hands as I turn the pages again. "I’m not.”

Why did he stress the I like that? I squint, look back at the file. And feel a sharp pain in my chest. I can barely cover my mouth in time to suppress the scream that escaped my mouth the moment I laid eyes on the photographs on the next two pages.

"That’s my mother!", I cry. "That’s my mother and Dylan!"

"Right.", Niall just says.

My mother and Dylan. Covered in blood. On the floor of my mother’s flat. A big knife stuck in my mother’s chest, a pair of scissors in Dylan’s throat. There’s scratch marks all over his face, if I wouldn’t have kissed it so many times in the past I wouldn’t have recognised him in first line.

I gasp for air. The sight of these pictures makes me feel like I drank acid. I want to throw up on it. But the worst thing about it is that I know that this isn’t the first time I see that. It’s like a blurry deja vu that drives you insane because you just can’t recall when you’ve seen it before.

"You killed them!?", I cry out, even though it’s more of a question.

"What?" Niall frowns and chuckles, very, very sarcastically. "No? Morgan, for fuck’s sake, look at the date below. I was playing at a stadium probably."

My eyes flicker to the handwritten date at the border of the polaroids. I’m shaking and crying, too, but I can still focus. The adrenaline rush of today’s still got a hold of me.

"They were taken in… 2016.", I mumble.

"Do you remember now?", Niall asks, getting down on his knees to cup my face and wipe the tears from my cheeks. "Do you remember now, baby?"

I still have to shake my head even though the monster in my head keeps screaming that it sure as hell does.

I turn to the other page, turning my head to make Niall let go of me. “Babe…”, he whispers. My eyes scan the pages. “Caught cheating… Stabbed six times… Not the first sign of aggressive behaviour…. Numb, neutral behaviour when found….. Very smart for her age.”, I mumble. “Is this about m-me?”

Niall nods.

I flick through the file, almost ripping some pages out, until two other polaroids fall out. Two young women now. And these polaroids were taken in-

"May 2023?", I whimper. And I know these people too well. A fake redhead with a fake tan. And her uglier friend. Covered in blood, literally slaughtered. Those polaroids are copies. There’s a note on the back of the one with the redhead on it. My name with a big queston mark behind it.

I drop the polaroids and look at Niall. All the voices in my head are quiet, but it hurts so bad. My entire body is numb. “Do you remember now?”, the monster’s voice asks me.

And I do. I do.

Like Niall said. It dawns on me.

It all comes crashing down.

And it’s the worst, yet most relieving thing I’ve ever felt.

It’s like there’s been a little casket in my head all the time, guarded by the loudest of the voices. And Niall, the only one who was even louder, eventually broke the lock and opened it.

I know now. I finally understand.

My heart is racing, cold sweat’s running down my skin. I lean my head against the wall, trying to bring myself to talk.

"You’re not the reason the cops are after us, right?", I ask. A part of me wants to laugh. "You drug addicted piece of shit, you mental little fucker with aggression issues like a bounty hunter in jail, ha-" I actually giggle,- "You’re not the problem. I am. You’re not the reason they’re after us. You’re not the bad guy in this story. I always knew. I always knew that. I realised it before, I just wasn’t… Fuck, what did they give me at the goddamn Bethlem Royal? You’re not the killer, Niall, right?"

"No.", he dryly says, careful, as if his words could harm, upset, offend, trigger me.

"I am.", I conclude, look at the face of the man that loves a murderer and he nods.

"And-", I go on, bursting into tears again- "that’s why I couldn’t call my mum, right? Because she’s been dead for over nine years."

"Yes.", Niall just says. "I’ve known it for a while. I know it now. And I’m okay, Morgan, we can figure this out. You did so well for so long and Doctor Rossdale will surely-"

"Shut up!", I shout and stand up.

His eyes widen, he stumbles back. He’s afraid.

And I realise they all are. Harry, Fefe, Niall. All of them know. They all knew it. That’s why they Harry seemed so scared. And Ted, Niall’s manager, too. They’re all afraid of me.

I want to help Niall to get back up on his feet, too. I want to kiss him and tell him that I’d never hurt him. But right now, I’m not even slightly used to the role of the killer yet.

"I killed my own mother. I killed my ex boyfriend. And I killed two girls who-… And I forgot it all and all of these blackouts I get, am I-?", I begin, trying so hard to help my dizzy brain process it all. The monster’s voice is cheering, praising me. Proud of what I did. I wish it would shut up. I look at Niall, quietly begging him to say anything.

"Baby.", is all that comes over his shaky lips before we flinch in shock and Niall jumps up to wrap his arms around me as if he could protect me from whoever’s coming closer. And closer. And closer.

Until they stop.

And the door opens.


	23. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't predict the ending.

"We had our first session when she was sixteen. About a month after… after it happened. When she first walked in, I was surprised. I mean, I know that stereotypes are mostly misleading. But when I heard that a girl of sixteen years stabbed her own mother and boyfriend, I would have expected her to look a little more… daunting? I’m sorry, I’ve got to be honest with you. Even though I’m a well educated psychologist, psychiatrist and should know better than that, I actually pictured her as one of those tiny, pale little horror film girls with black, braided hair and emotionless faces. Like Wednesday Addams, maybe. I’m sorry. But when she came in, the first thought that crossed my mind was ‘She’s beautiful’. And I felt so ashamed and unprofessional. But that’s what I thought in that moment. That she was truly beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful that magazines try to determine. It wasn’t just her face or the already so womanlike body beneath her black clothes, it was in the way she held herself. You could tell that she’s seen things, did things, went through hard phases. But she still carried herself with her head held high. And her aura. Her aura filled my entire office from the first second on. I knew she was a strong girl. And not a bad person."

Doctor Francis Rossdale looks at Officer Moore and swallows. It still tastes like whiskey in her mouth. She didn’t have a drink in so long. But last night, she was in desperate need.

She knew that at some point in her life, she’d have to face it. She’d have to deal with the truth. The fact that her sympathy for Morgan was sympathy for a serial killer. And that was, in fact, not quite convenient for someone in her position. She felt guilty. Every word just worsened it. But she had to tell them the whole story. The story of how she met, treated and defended a serial killer. And who listened closely could tell she was willing to do it again.

"Go on.", Officer Pritchard demands.

Doctor Rossdale nods, scratching the back of her hand. When did it get so wrinkly?

"We didn’t talk about the incident first. I asked for her name. Her age. Her hobbies. Her favourite kind of music. She seemed to enjoy being asked all these question. I don’t know if she answered them truthfully, but she had fun and that mattered to me. It was weird, you know? I had treated a lot of rather difficult cases already, murderes, too, but none of them had only been close to Morgan Valentine. I knew it from the start. That there was something about her that would make it impossible for me to treat her as distant and cold as some of my other patients. The contrast of my knowledge on the crime she commited and the girl in the chair in front of me was definetly extreme. I’m not saying she was a happy, smiley kind of girl. She wasn’t. There was so much sadness in her eyes. Devastation, honestly. And there were scars all over her forearms. She wore a pair of denim shorts and I could see scars on her thighs as well. But it seemed to me that she had not much in common with the killers I had treated before. I mean, that’s why they didn’t send her to prison right away, right? She was just a child. And the juvenile law cleary said she had to get treatment at the Bethlem Royal. They kept her in custody before the trial, though. And it didn’t do her well. But wait, we’re not… We’re not there yet. Let me think. Yes, our first meeting. We didn’t talk about her mother of her boyfriend, Dylan, at all. We only talked about really random things. Actually, we talked about books a lot in our first six sessions. Books and films and music. She told me she never finished books that didn’t keep her interest throughout the story. That’s why she never read the end of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. She said ‘It’s a classic, yes, but it’s so boring. The whole book, I mean, the part I read, was just about how fucking super cool and sexy Atticus Finch is. They should’ve called the book My sexy lawyer dad and the creepy neighbour . Because that’s what it’s about.’ I looked at her and I seriously had to laugh. It surprised her. I think she didn’t know that I liked her. Yes, I liked her. I know a therapist should keep distance to their patients. But I couldn’t. I liked her and I think the moment I laughed at that, she realised it. That I wasn’t just sent by the police to squeeze her brain like a grapefruit. That I actually cared for her. Listened to her. That I was there for her. It made me wonder how honest she’d been up to that point. Considering she probably didn’t trust me, I realised she must have lied a lot. That was something she’s always been good at. Morgan Valentine is both the most honest person and the best liar in the whole world.”

Doctor Rossdale looks at the ceiling fan, runs her fingers through her hair and inhales deeply. The tape is still recording. How often will they listen to her story after she left?

"Anyway. I told her ‘You should have read the end. It’s really beautiful. The tragic cliché of a happy end. Sort of.’ She just looked at me and dryly said ‘I don’t believe in happy ends. I don’t believe in that kind of fucked up Hollywood fairytale. I believe there’s always many possible ends to a story. And if a writer chooses the happy end, they most likely don’t believe in it, too’. I was wondering if she just wanted to come off profound, smart, highbrow. But her words just wouldn’t leave me alone the following night. And the night after. There was something true about them, don’t you agree?"

The policemen only stare at her.

"Well..", she sighs and rolls her eyes, feeling incredibly powerful and intelligent, "I quickly realised she was a smart girl. Tough girl."

"Did you actually give her treatment or did you just talk about old books?", Officer Pritchard asks.

Doctor Rossdale rolls her eyes again. “Of course I gave her treatment. She’s been my patient for seven years.” You fucking idiot, she silently adds in her head only. “But I approached her slowly. I liked her, yes, but after all, she was a pubescent killer. One little word and she could’ve stabbed me with a pencil. I mean, not that I believed it. Because there would have been absolutely no reason behind it. She killed her mother and boyfriend for a reason.”

"And that reason was?", Officer Moore asks.

"You know that.", Doctor Rossdale says.

"Tell us again."

"Her mother was an abusive alcoholic. And she slept with Morgan’s boyfriend. Regularly."

"So, you mean, Miss Valentine walked in on her mother and her boyfriend?", Stanley Pritchard asks as if he didn’t know already. Well, maybe he doesn’t. These officers don’t seem like the best choice for the job.

"No.", Doctor Rossdale says. "She knew it. She knew it and pretended she didn’t. She never told me, but I know it’s been this way. I found out when she had her first panic attack in my office. Her first breakdown. The weird thing with Morgan is, these are her clear moments. The moment her breakdown begins, the walls fall down and she knows. She’s aware of what she did. That, of course, only makes it worse. But the things she says and does during these breakdowns, which are, after she literally broke down crying, more like a state of trance, are easy to interpret for a psychologist."

"Those moments are the moments she gets physically aggressive as well, right?"

Doctor Rossdale nods. “Correct. Never towards me. But I think she killed those girls in one of these moments. It lasted very long that time. I think the less she had them, the longer they lasted, the worse they were. The man she fell in love with-“

"Niall Horan.", Officer Moore says.

"Yes, I sure know his name.", Doctor Rossdale hisses. "He helped her. He made it easier for her. The moment I figured he knew about her story, I was worried he’d leave her. But he didn’t. First I wanted to call him and tell him not to try and explain it all to her. But maybe it’s better if he does. I’m sure he did it by now. Either way, he’s good for her."

"He’s a drug addicted pop singer.", Edwyn Moore says.

"Ex pop singer.", Stanley Pritchard adds with a repulsive smile.

"So?", Doctor Rossdale says and raises her brows. "He might be a drug addict, but Morgan’s an addict, too. They’re both insane, to say it in your simple words, Officer, but they’re in love. Who can blame them?"

"She still killed two, if not three people in the time they’ve been together.", Edwyn Moore responds. "Didn’t help her as much as you think it did."

"Three? Come on. We all know she wasn’t responsible for, what was his name, Ted McCain’s death. He was a depressed, suicidal homosexual stalker. You’re just trying to cover that up because Mrs McCain asked you to do so. And…well, I know this might sound like I support her actions, but she killed Emily Hastings and Delilah Smith because they wanted to harm the man she loved. And yes, murdering them is more than just a big overreaction, but I think it was a chain reaction and-"

"You’re trying to defend her here?", Officer Pritchard interrupts the doctor.

"I’m just saying she can’t be held responsible for her actions like other people. She’s mentally ill."

"Why did you ever let her out of the Bethlem Royal in first line then?", Officer Moore asks and Doctor Rossdale knows, no matter what she’ll say, he won’t accept it.

"I wanted to give her a chance to live. Because at the age of 22, she had only lived on the days she spent with her father in Brighton. And yes, it was selfish of me to want to grant her something better, but her behaviour was exemplary, she had made so much progress and I trusted and believed in her."

"What a horrible mistake, Doctor Rossdale, what a horrible mistake.", Edwyn Moore sighs.

Doctor Rossdale frowns. “I might take care of crazy human minds for a living, but I’m still human, too.”

"A serial killer is not a good substitute for the child you never had.", Officer Pritchard says.

Doctor Rossdale clenches her fists. That was too much. “You’re getting a bit too personal now, Stanley.”, she snarls and lets her knuckles crack. “Keep in mind we’re taping this hearing.”

Stanley Pritchard scratches his double chin and nods.

"Fine. Please tell us about the first time you confronted Morgan Valentine with her actions. Did she have a breakdown?"

Doctor Rossdale nods. “Yes.”

"What was it like?"

"I directly asked her about it. I had had the conversation in my heads days before. Went through all the words again and again and again. I had to be brave. But when I said it, she completely blocked. Started shaking like crazy. Wrapped her arms around her knees, rocked back and forth. Trying to protect herself. She pressed her flat hands on her ears as if there was someone shouting at me. I asked her who it was and she just said ‘The voices’. I asked her what they were saying and she replied ‘He’s with her again. Again. Again.’ She was at the edge of sanity, in fact I had to physically help her to calm down."

"Did you slap her?"

"What? No. I hugged the girl. I hugged her and held her. And for some reason, she’d let me. I thought she’d push me away. She was such a distant and cool character after all. But she’d let me hug her. I realised she finally had found some trust in me. And that felt good. I was honoured."

"Did she calm down?", Officer Pritchard asks. He doesn’t really seem to care.

"Yes. I gave her pills as well, though."

"Why did you feel honoured to be allowed to hug her?", Officer Moore wants to know. Doctor Rossdale inhales deeply, trying to find the right words. It was hard to describe a character as complex as Morgan’s.

"Generally, Morgan’s never been very empathic. Throughout the years, she became more and more numb. She was aware of other people’s emotions, but they didn’t affect her. She was sort of immune to every emotion, except during her panic attacks. She always had a mellow little smile on her face. Sometimes, she laughed, but I knew she never meant it. The only exception were people she loved, or at least really cared for. I’d boldly include myself. And her father. Whenever I brought this topic up, her eyes would widen. She’d talk about the few memories she had of him like they were part of a film. She’d always tell me about this song he showed her. ‘Don’t You’ by Simple Minds. A classic. All the empathy she lacked in general existed for her father and me only. I think that’s why her bond with Mr Horan is so strong now. She’s feeling all of these intense things for the first time in her life. She didn’t feel much for Dylan in first line, even less when she found out he was cheating on her with her mother. All she felt was anger. And after she’d snapped, she flipped a switch in her head and went completely numb."

"Interesting.", Edwyn Moore says. "Is that common? For psychopaths?"

"More common than you think. Even for the people you’d consider healthy."

"Is there a name for her illness? Schizophrenia?", Officer Pritchard wants to know.

"A bit of everything, actually. Morgan Valentine’s head is a fruit salad of all kinds of symptoms. Everything and nothing. She manages to act like a completely sane person most of the time. Thanks to the numbness. I’ve never seen her with Mr Niall Horan, but I guess a bit more of her actual personality shows when she’s with him. She can be so vivid and passionate. And also, I forgot, Officer Pritchard, Mr Horan in fact helped her. She didn’t cut herself once ever since they’ve officially started dating. Also, she didn’t hallucinate anymore."

"Hallucinate?"

"Yeah. I was going to talk about that anyway. Like I said, except for during those scary moments, Morgan wasn’t aware of what she did. And she did not just, well, not know it, no, she was convinced her mother and boyfriend were still alive, just out of town. When I first heard that, I thought she was lying to me. Making fun of me. But I soon realised she actually believed in it, too."

"We know that. We don’t really believe that, though.", Officer Pritchard says.

"Well, you should." Doctor Rossdale hisses. She’s getting really angry at these men.

"Could you tell us about Miss Valentine’s side of the story? As in her beliefs?", the other one asks. "What did she believe was the actual truth?"

"All summed up, Morgan was convinced her mother thought she was crazy. For cutting and never going out, for not having any friends. For crying more than what she thought young girls should. She thought that’s why her mother put her in an ‘Asylum’. That’s how she called the Bethlem Royal. She always liked it dramatic. She believed her mother moved to another town. Throughout her stay at the Bethlem Royal, she would actually change it all up a little. Of course most of those who worked there, with her, believed she was kidding. But, I’m repeating myself, she, in fact, believed in all of it. It was all real for her. She told me she was still with Dylan, but things were difficult. He wouldn’t call. Sometimes, she said, he did. She said ‘He talks to me sometimes, even though he isn’t there’. I asked her ‘Where does he talk to you?’ And she pointed at her head. ‘Here.’, she said. I first thought those ‘voices’ , as she called them, were some sort of, you know, other personalities of her. I told another doctor, who treats patients with a multiple personality disorder in particular, about my theory. I thought that maybe, when on her own, Morgan would play the role of her mother, of Dylan. Of a Morgan with emotions. Of Killer-Morgan. But that was wrong. Morgan was always Morgan. The voices in her head just stood for the emotions she’d never express. There was, or is, this one voice in her head that she described as especially low. And evil. I think this voice was the loudest when she killed all these people."

"So you’re saying she’s possessed? A demonic voice told her to kill those people?", Officer Pritchard chuckles. "I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous."

"No, I’m not saying that, Officer.", Doctor Rossdale spits out. "It was always Morgan. Like I said. But she’s a puppet to her emotions. And she spent her entire existence trying to fight that. Anyway. She ‘broke up’ with Dylan a while before I managed to make them let her go, before she moved into her own flat in Marylebone, with another name, a new ID. That was a sign for immense progress. She let go. She said her mother still called and asked about Dylan, a sign for how aware she’d always been of their affair and bond, but apart from that, I never doubted that releasing her was the right decision. I still met her twice a week. Then once. She did well."

"Until she killed Emily Hastings and Delilah Smith.", Officer Moore says.

"How did you manage to let them release her in first line?", Officer Pritchard asks. He’s testing her. Doctor Rossdale knows that very well.

"Killing her mother and boyfriend, just like killing these two girls, was a chain reaction that happened in the damaged head of a confused young girl."

"You make manslaughter sound like a joke.", Stanley Pritchard chuckles.

"And you are laughing about it, Officer.", Doctor Rossdale hisses back. Officer Pritchard’s face turns beet red. Well done, Francis.

"Her mother abused her. She attacked her that night, too. Morgan just defended herself. She was sixteen years old and aware of, excuse my strong language, her own mother fucking the only boy that had ever showed interest in her. For quite a while. None of us ever really found out, but I figured Dylan attacked her, too, when he saw what she had done to her mother. The progress she made throughout the therapy was amazing, too."

"And let’s not forget that you’re a well respected psychologist and psychiatrist, Doctor Rossdale You’ve got all the strings in your hands, right?", Stanley Pritchard asks. "You’ll probably try and defend the killing of these girls, too, am I right?"

Doctor Rossdale digs her nails into her palm, wondering if she should answer as a doctor or as woman with a much too big heart.

Then, she makes her decision. “You can bet your crusty ass I will.”, she hisses.

Officer Moore bites his lip, trying not to burst out laughing at the sight of his partner’s open mouth.

"I don’t know how it all happened, but I assume that those girls really wanted to harm Niall Horan.", Doctor Rossdale says, putting the files she brought back in her bag. "And I know the law forbids you to tell me more about how exactly it all happened. But I can assure you that I’m not gonna let you put Morgan Valentine or Niall Horan into prison. You can bet on that."

Officer Pritchard looks like a mashed tomato and Officer Moore just shakes his head in disbelief. But Doctor Rossdale is content with her demeanour. She grabs her bag, stands up and reaches out to shake the policemen’s hands.

"This much to Morgan Valentine.", she says as she turns around to leave the small room in the local police station. "If you ever need help with your aggression, Officer Pritchard, you’ve got my number."

She hears him gasp as she walks out the door. The sound of her heels on the polished floor echoes from the blank walls. She feels heads turning after her and she smiles. She did well.

Still, there’s a weird feeling in her chest. It hurts. She’s worried. Worried about Morgan. The police is still after her in America. One word too much, a raised arm, an insult, and they might shoot her.

Officer Pritchard’s words have still got her in a chokehold. “Not a substitute for a child”, she mutters as she walks down the street. “What a fucking asshole.” It’s a sunny day and despite how upset she is, she decides to have some ice cream.

"You did well, Francis.", she praises herself as she licks the top of the big vanilla ice cream cone. "Everything’s going to be okay."

She said that phrase too often, to too many people, to still believe it.

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

____________________________________________________

"Put the fucking gun down you fucking maniac!", Harry shouts, jumping to the side. "For fuck’s sake, Niall! Fuck! Fuck you!"

Niall’s shaking. I put my hand on his shoulder to feel his body trembling. In this moment, I feel so close to him. I’m still shaking, too. Of course I am. I wonder why I haven’t had a breakdown yet. Why it didn’t all go black. Now that I know. Now that I remember. Is it because he told me? Is it because a kind voice in my head reminds me that he put so much effort in trying to make me feel sane, healthy, normal, trying to keep me from finding out the ugly truth, just because he loves me? Does that soothe me? A bit, yes. And that’s, in fact, a completly new feeling for me.

But I’m scared. As the door opened, Niall grabbed a gun from the wall and pointed at whoever was coming in. We both thought it were the cops. Of course we did. But it was Harry. And as he turns around to jump aside, Niall pulls the trigger. A shot with no destination, a wasted bullet fired in panic. He almost killed Harry.

"Fuck you! Fuck you so fucking hard, Horan, fuck!", Harry shouts, stomping his foot on the ground. "You almost fucking shot me! Fuck you! Fuck!"

"Fuck!", Niall shouts back, dropping the gun. It’s a lot bigger than the one he brought. "Fuck, Harry, I’m so fucking-"

He stumbles out of the small room we were locked up in, pulling on my hand. Harry leans against the wall of the pantry, breathing heavily. His shirt is unbuttoned and just now I realise a big scar on his chest. I can’t help but stare at it.

He catches me and smirks, even though his eyes are still filled with fear.

"What?", he asks. "Like my scar?"

Niall looks at me and frowns. Of course he doesn’t approve of me gazing at Harry’s half naked body. Especially because he’s still not wearing a top either.

"Well, this wasn’t the first time I almost died.", Harry says and winks at me.

Niall steps between us to break our eye contact and puts his big hand on Harry’s shoulder. Even though he’s shorter than him, his hands are paws compared to Harry’s.

"I’m sorry, I thought you were them damn cops.", Niall mumbles.

"Yeh, I doubt you wanted to shoot me.", Harry responds and chuckles. "You were gonna shoot a cop, Horan."

"Yeh."

"Well…The cops are gone. I think we’re safe. For a while. I don’t know about your future plans but I suggest you find somewhere else to stay. Those fuckers got their eyes everywhere, damn. Good they didn’t have fucking dogs or something. Fuck, we’re so lucky today."

I just sigh. If this is a lucky day, I don’t want to know what an unlucky day in Harry’s life is like. Well, it can’t be much worse than my regular days were back in the day when I didn’t know what it feels like to kiss Niall, though.

"I don’t know where to go. And who to trust! I mean, even Geoff-" Niall abruptly stops. He hasn’t told Harry about his little accident yet it seems.

"What about Geoff?", Harry asks, slowly recovering from the shock. "Where is he anyway?"

"I killed him.", Niall says. Just like that. Now who’s the psycho?

"Sure.", Harry says. "Sure, Niall. You too, now? Oh, fuck, wait, I-"

"She knows.", Niall says, just as dryly. "I told her."

Harry leans over to look at me, scanning my face for any sign of emotion. I just stare back at him, not blinking. I wonder if I should snap at him or hiss like a cat, but I know this wouldn’t be funny at all. None of this is funny.

"Are… Are you okay, Morgan?", Harry asks and the fondness in his voice is making a part of me very, very weak. My fucking heart to be more explicit.

I shake my head. “Honestly, no, I’m not. But I guess that doesn’t matter.”

"It does.", Niall says, turning around to face me again. "Babe, d’ya wanna lay down or something?"

"Niall, did you already forget what I told you? I don’t feel like my house is safe anymore. The cops are gone, but-"

"Yeh, I know. But if Morgan needs some rest, she will have it."

I shake my head and reach out to touch Niall. Feeling his skin against mine is the only comfort in this morning. It feels like the town of lies and play pretend I’ve built up in my soul just got trampled down by a monster and the monster is me. There’s a huge hole in my chest and it gapes. And only Niall can fill it.

I can’t keep myself from wrapping my arms around his waist. I put my cheek against his chest to hear his racing heart. He rests his chin on top of my head and asks me if I want to sleep.

"No.", I say. "I doubt I’ll ever be able to sleep again."

I’ve been so close to the truth so often. And now I know it all. Remember how her hand felt on me as she tried to fight me. Again. She had hit me so often before. I remember how Dylan screamed and how it felt to take the scissor and ram it into his throat. I remember the blue lights, the men pulling on my limbs, my own screams. I remember the white walls, the padded cell. I remember the taste of the mashed potatoes at the Bethlem Royal. My roommate Zoe. I remember all the sessions at Doctor Rossdale’s office. And how I got better. And the story I believed in. The story a part of me still believes in. Suddenly, I get scared. I know I’ve seen clear during my panic attacks, but what if the state I am will fade into the trance again? What if I had moments like that before? And just forget and go back to lying to myself? Again and again and again?

I dig my nails into Niall’s naked chest and I know it cuts him, I know it bleeds, but he’s holding me. I don’t care about Harry watching. I need to be held. What if this happened before? It feels like I know everything and nothing at once.

And Emily. And Delilah. I remember them, too. I remember the rush when I sneaked out. How I googled their names. The research I made. All planned in a state of absolute madness. How I found them. How they yelled at me. The names they called me. Their attempt to run away. And the sound of the blade sinking into thin girl flesh. And now I know why there was a blood stain on Niall’s shirt the day he locked me in my flat. It was my shirt. And Emily’s blood.

"So are you gonna fuck now?", Harry asks. "Shall I leave? Is this a wedding ceremony?"

"Shut up, you insensitive piece of shit.", Niall hisses and squeezes me in his big arms before he lets go of me. "Morgan, I’ll put you to bed now."

"But I’m not tired.", I lie. I just know I can’t sleep. How am I supposed to sleep when the ceiling of the world I thought I lived in just crashed down on me? Revealing a dark, clouded sky above, no sun, no moon, no stars. Just thick, black clouds that pour drops of blood. The blood of those I killed. I. Killed. And the knowledge that a part of me liked it. That I could do it again. How am I supposed to sleep in peace when there were times I closed my eyes and opened them with a whole new view, like a predator on the hunt, in the same body as the confused, misled girl I was most of the time?

"Well, I don’t care.", Niall says. "You need to rest. It’s been too much for you. All of that. All the things I said. Running away from me, everything that happened. You need sleep. And food. Harry, we need to get her something to eat."

"There’s plenty in the pantry.", Harry jokes. "But I got better stuff upstairs in the fridge." Niall just grunts and opens his arms again to step back and take my hand, walking out of the pantry. Everything’s quiet around us as we walk through the basement.

My stomach hurts and it gets worse with each step I take. And I know it’s not only the fact I was just confronted with my past and what that did to me, no, fuck, there’s something else. There’s something in the stuffy air and my instincts are ringing like a siren going off in my head. I tighten my grip around Niall’s wrist and he turns around, noticing the concern in my face.

"Morgan, what’s wrong?"

It’s like I heard it before it even sounded.

"Harry?" It’s Fefe, from upstairs. And she sounds exactly how I feel: Alarmed. "Harry?"

Harry turns to Niall and frowns, then back around. “Fefe? What is it?”

"Harry!?"

He senses it too, now. He starts running.

That’s when the sound of breaking glass echoes through the house. Niall immediately stops, I almost stumble over my own feet. A high pitched scream, followed by strange shouts, more glass breaking, a loud bang, my fear escaping my lips in a whimper, Niall’s hand on my mouth,- and the strong, menacing smell of smoke.

"Fuck.", Niall cusses. "Fuck, Morgan, come."

He pulls on my arm and we run after Harry. I can see the shadow of the flames on the white wall in the hallway already as we pass the pool and approach the stairs.

"Fefe!", I hear Harry screaming. "Fefe!"

My fear’s taking over. I’m shaking, even worse than before and the only thing that keeps me from freaking out completely, maybe even blacking out, because, in fact, the way I feel is very close to what it’s like before a panic attack, but it seems as if now that I know the truth, some of the voices in my head are eased, as they don’t question everything anymore. And they tell me to pull myself together because there’s literally no worse moment for a blackout than this one.

"Come here, babe, we got to hurry.", Niall says, trying hard to sound calm. He’s not doing well. "We gotta get out of here."

I’m tempted to ask why but I can already tell. The house is burning.

I’ve never seen a fire before. On TV, yes, many times. But sitting in front of a screen watching actors run from animated flames that could never harm them is different from stepping into what used to be a living room just an hour ago and now looks like the depths of hell, blazing flames eating up the furniture, black smoke wafting through the broken windows and the heat making my head spin. Niall grabs the seam of my shirt and pulls it up to cover my mouth with the fabric.

"Get! Out!", he instructs.

It’s weird how quickly we adapt to the situation. A part of me just wants to stand there and watch the flames rage on, another part is still trying to process the fact that Harry’s villa is actually on fire, but the most dominant part focuses on one thing only: Survive. A basic, human drive. But I’m not the only one that has to get out of here. Niall has to come with me.

"Niall, come!", I yell at him. Fire’s always portrayed as hot and bright, the scent as strong and narcotic, but nobody ever mentions that fire is loud, too.

"Harry and Fefe!", Niall shouts, pointing at the other side of the room. Of course. I feel guilty for having forgotten them. This is the monster in me I guess. And the only person it cares for besides me is Niall. The monster is quite fond of him, actually. It killed for him.

I see Harry’s silhouette behind the bar, where it’s not burning as much since there’s no furniture around. But how exactly is Niall planning on getting to him? There’s flames everywhere. It’s so warm, so fucking warm. I’m dizzy and scared and angry and tired.

"Get! Out!", Niall repeats. "Get the fuck out, right now!"

He puts the gun he carried in my hands and points at the door. “Go!”

I don’t move. He’s getting angry. He pushes me towards the exit and shouts: “For fuck’s sake, Morgan, GET OUT OF HERE!”

I don’t want to turn my back on him, I don’t want to leave him behind. He’ll injure himself, he’ll get burnt, what if he can’t find his way back out, what if he dies?

Now that I know I’ve played a sick game with death all along I can feel it watching over me. Death is close. I can almost see the reaper in the corner, smiling at me. His face is a reflection of mine.

I don’t know why, because my mind tries to fight it, but my feet start moving and I step back, away from the flames.

"Go!", Niall shouts, his blue eyes wide and filled with panic. I look at his face, trying to capture it as tears blind me. I think of how it looked between my thighs, of his smile. Now, his ry mouth hangs open, pearls of sweat cover his skin. The flames in the back cast shadows on his half naked body. I want to reach out and touch him, but I turn around and walk out of the door.

I stumble into daylight, it’s a hot afternoon, clear blue sky, not a single cloud. I land on my knees, feeling the sand scratch my skin open. I look up. And I see them. By the trees at the driveway’s border, watching the house go down in flames. And I know it was them. It all makes sense in my head. The men that attacked me somehow followed Harry and me to his place. I can see an old Range Rover standing there, with one of them leaning against it. The guy whose dick I cut off’s not with them, but ginger twins that weren’t around at the streetcorner downtown.

They were the ones shouting. The ones who smashed the windows. The ones who set the fire. I get back on my knees in a split second. I don’t need a blackout for this. Everything’s clear now. And I’m determined like never before in that state of mind. I wrap my fingers around the gun and walk towards them.

"Hey!", I hear myself yelling. "Couldn’t get enough of me?"

"Dave, that’s her! I told you she wasn’t the chick inside, dude, that chick inside was blonde!", the shortest one of them says.

"Fuck.", Jack Sparrow, whose real names is Dave, mouths.

"You see! That’s the real psycho chick from the news.", one of the twins says.

"Like on a silver plate.", his brother says.

"What the fuck are you talkin’ about?", Dave asks. "Silver plate? We were gonna scare them a little, just a prank, not-"

"But think, Dave! Now that she’s here! We could take her with us, to the cops and-"

"As if the cops haven’t met us often enough!", Dave protests.

I raise my arm, aiming at him. “They’ll meet you one last time, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to answer any of their questions about me then.”, I say. It’s like I stole that line from a movie. How could I keep the secret from myself for so long? I’m good at this. Good at getting along with the monster. Good at killing.

I hold my breath and pull my finger back.

The backfire’s immense, but I shoot again. Straight into their chests. One of the twins actually pulls out a gun, too, but before he’s able to pull the trigger, I’ve pulled mine. And that’s the first time I know I will remember. And I don’t mind at all. They deserved it. They don’t even scream. They just drop into the sand, soaking it in their dirty blood. “Self-defense.”, I tell myself as I losen my grip and let the gun fall down, too.

In the same moment, I can hear him calling my name. I turn around and see Niall running out of the building, towards me. He’s covered in dust and the skin on his chest is swollen and red. I open my arms and let him crash into me. He presses his mouth on mine and I run my fingers through his hair before I cup his face and kiss his forehead. I can’t keep myself from crying anymore. I just let go. Hell broke lose and I feel like Lucifer himself. But I got my god back in my arms.

In the corner of my eye, I can see Harry walking out. And in fact, I feel eased. My lack of empathy doesn’t include Harry. I grew attached to him. And the way he looks is worrying me. He carries Fefe in his arms. I look closer. Her body’s covered in burns. Open wounds.

"Niall?", I ask, letting go of him, letting my achy feet carry me towards Harry. Another loud bang in the house makes me wonder if ceiling beams are breaking already. That’s a lot of money ablaze in the back.

Harry looks like a warrior in front of the fire that’s emerged to the top floors now, too. The red and yellow flames turn the white house black. The sky above is crystal blue.

Harry’s body’s covered in sweat and ashes. Fefe’s head leans against Harry’s scarred, tattooed chest. Hers isn’t moving.

I drop to my knees again. For the first time in my life, I feel deeply sorry. So sorry, so fucking sorry it’s like the claws of the monster are tearing my chest apart. I can hear myself crying, asking: “Is she…?”, unable to say a word so familar to me.

When Harry nods, the world stops turning. Just for a moment, the flames seem to stop gorging the scenery of a perfect plastic dream and turning it into a horrible nightmare, the slight wind stops tickling my sweaty skin and we all hold our breath. Niall’s hand rests on my shoulder. And I look at the man in front of me, the man who lost everything he owned within a single day. And I know that no matter how uppish he was if it came to his money and everything he could buy with it, he now realises that there’s one thing he can never ever purchase. One thing he can never replace now that it’s gone.

And then, he moves. And the clock starts ticking again. Time moves on. Just like that. That’s how it will go. From now on and forever, time will go by, just like that.

I’m feeling sick, so sick. Harry’s made history, even if in pop culture only, and right now, an important part of his story’s been ripped out the further context of the drama his life has become. Just like that. And I realise that everyone I killed, fucking killed, was part of a story, too. Not just mine. These men. Might have had children. But do I feel sorry for them? No, not at all. Not in the slightest. Not even for my own mother, who gave birth to me. I don’t feel sorry at all.

But Fefe. Who was closest to the best friend I wish Lucy could have been, who gave my story a taste of magic,- Knowing she won’t come back in the next chapter makes me feel so fucking sick. And so sad. So goddamn sad.

"She… She inhaled too much smoke… And she’s injured, she couldn’t move. Look at her face. Look at her fucking face. Whatever they threw, it hit her. She was unconscious right away.", Harry coughs, showing me and Niall the big open wound on Fefe’s forehead. Her eyes are closed, her mouth as well. She’s a lifeless doll in Harry’s big arms.

"Isn’t there a chance that we-", Niall begins. His voice sounds so concerned.

"No.", Harry says. "She’s dead."

"But, Harry, we have to-"

"No, Niall, she’s dead. Dead. Fefe is dead."

Dead.

Fefe is dead.

It’s so sick how our brains just adapt. Just like we run when we’re being chased. Like we close our eyes when being blinded. No matter how fucked up a situation might be, in order to survive, our brains adapt, get over the shock and disbelief in seconds and leave us standing there, looking at the dead body of that beautiful young woman in Harry’s shaky arms, like it wasn’t the most horrible thing in the world to see.

The house in the back is burning, a golden frame around Harry’s strange beauty, sun kissed skin, inked skin covered in ashes, and the girl in his arms.

He drops to his knees. And I can see a single tear streaming down his face. Did he love her? Did he love her like I love Niall? Like Niall loves me? No, I don’t think so. Love is always different. He loved her in his own way, though. And the pain he supposedly feels right now must be unbearable. Just the thought of losing Niall this way makes me want to scream. And the fact this wouldn’t even be an unreaistic incidence drives me insane.

Fefe’s death was needless. Simple as that. Needless. She died for nothing. She fucking died. I hope that the last thing she saw was Harry in the flames. If I die, and fuck, I feel like it’s not much longer, I hope Niall will be the last thing I see, too. I know I shot the men who killed her, but it doesn’t do her justice. It just isn’t enough.

"It’s your fault.", a voice in my head says. So clear, so loud. "Maybe you should just shoot yourself, too."

I’m shaking my head and Niall turns to me, frowning. I can hardly suppress the strange urge to hit myself again, solely to make the voices shut up. Niall can tell I’m getting nervous. But the moment he reaches out to touch my hand, knowing that’ll calm me down, Harry looks up and says: “It’s your fault, Niall. It’s your fault that she’s dead.”

"Fuck, Harry, no, what the hell are you talking about, I-", Niall stutters. Nobody, not even the most naive little child in the world would believe him. He feels guilty. He doesn’t have to, but he does. "I don’t know who set the fire, I-"

All I can do for now is to raise my arm, the one with the gun, and point at the Range Rover. It’s a mircale Harry didn’t spot it yet. Then again, the woman he probably loved just died on him. And his villa is burning down. All of white furniture, all of the electronics. All of the goddamn drugs. All of the fucking money.

"It was them?", Harry asks, getting back up on his feet. "What the fuck happened?"

"I- I shot them.", I say.

"Well, one thing you’re good at it, huh.", Harry sarcastically says. He swallows hard. "These are the men that I saw you with in Los Angeles."

I just nod.

"Morgan?", Niall asks, finally grabbing my hand again. "What on earth did you do?"

"It’s okay. They deserved it." They all did. My mother as well as Dylan as well as Emily and Delilah.

"Give me the fucking gun.", Harry says.

"No.", Niall insists. "Don’t give him the gun, Morgan."

Niall’s bottom lip is shaking. He’s scared. Is he afraid Harry’s going to shoot him? Or me? Because after all, it’s my fault. I led the men to the villa. I’m the girl whose mugshot like patient file picture they show on the news. There’s probably a fucking bounty on my head.

"Give me the gun.", Harry repeats. And then, he just rips it out of my hands. Niall wraps his arms around me as if he wanted to protect me from his friend, but Harry just walks past us, towards the men by the old car. He aims at their dead bodies and pulls the trigger. One, twice. Often enough to, in case they woke up and died again, the woke up again, kill them a third time.

Niall just stares at me, supposedly waiting for any sign of reaction to Harry’s late revenge. But I don’t feel anything. What he does is right, I… I understand. Fuck empathy. Fuck all of this. All I feel right now is sadness. I turn to Fefe again and bite my bottom lip, trying hard to keep from crying, but I can’t.

"Babe, hey, it’s okay.", Niall says, kissing my cheek. "I never wanted any of this to happen. I just wanted you to be happy. I wanted us to be free. That’s all I ever wanted. I didn’t want any of this. I can’t believe all of this is happening, I need… I definetly need a damn line, I-"

"Shut up.", I say. "Just shut the fuck up."

He nods and kisses my cheek again. We watch the house burn on and on as Harry fires a bullet straight into Dave’s head, screaming at the top of his lungs, insulting the dead men, laughing hysterically.

And then, it’s quiet. Just for a moment. Until I hear his footsteps coming closer on the sand, until I feel Niall detaching from my body. Harry’s grabbed him by his shoulders.

"Look at me!", Harry hisses through his teeth, smearing ashes all over Niall’s half naked nody as he grabs him. "Look at me, Horan! This is your fault! None of this would’ve happened if I wouldn’t have helped you for the sake of our old friendship! I should’ve known better than giving you a fake alibi and all of that! Better than covering up your sick psycho bullshit! Fuck you, Niall. I fucking hope you suffer for all the shit you put me through. I shuould have known better!"

He’s so loud, so angry.

Niall looks him straight in the eyes, his chest rising quickly.

"I wish I had the balls to shoot you, too. Fuck ,you’d deserve that. And you, too." Harry turns to me. "You’re a plague. You’re a fucking plague, Morgan Valentine. You make me sick. Because I can’t bring myself to hate you. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m scared. Maybe it’s ‘cause I love this fucking bastard in front of me too much to hate the girl he loves. I don’t know. But you’re a fucking plague. And I wish they’d never let you out of the damn asylum. You both belong there."

His words hit a sore spot. He knows that. It was his intention to hurt me. I understand that he’s acting defensive now. I look at Niall, expecting him to at least clench his fists in anger, but he’s calm. He’s smarter than that. Better than fighting back. Harry’s right after all. Maybe, Niall and I should rot in a padded cell for enternity. After all I did and now that I know I did it, there’s probably no chance for me to avoid any similar consquences for much longer. And it’s not like a burning villa won’t attract attention in Hollywood. They’re still after us. And if these men found us, so will the cops.

Harry lets go of Harry, only to grab him again within a split second, raising the gun and putting it to his head.

"There’s still a bullett in the barrell.", he hisses. "I could use it on you or your psycho girlfriend."

"You wouldn’t do that.", Niall says.

I think my heart stopped beating.

"I wouldn’t? You have no idea what I’m capable of.", Harry responds.

"Neither had you. And see where we ended up.", Niall says in a low voice. "Let’s not end it like that, Harry. What happened to Fefe… I will be sorry forever."

"So will I.", I say.

"You shut up!", Harry snarls and points at me with the gun now. "Maybe I should just shoot you? You’re the problem! None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up in Niall’s life! He was better off without you!"

Each word cuts deeper than every blade I’ve ever dragged across my skin.

"Take that back.", I whimper. "Niall, tell me what he said is not true."

"It’s not true!", Niall quickly shouts, finally sounding as angry as the Niall I got to know should. "Don’t fucking dare to say things like that."

"God, aren’t you the sweetest fucking couple in world? So supportive of each other!", Harry mocks us, still aiming at me. What if the gun goes off? I’d be dead within seconds.

Was Niall better off without me?

Probably.

"Pull the damn trigger.", a voice inside of me tries to tell Harry. "Then you’ll be fine." They won’t have to deal with half as much shit as Niall and I, and Harry ,could go through if we get caught. Which we will. Of that, I’m sure.

"Put the gun down, Harry.", Niall says. "It’s not her fault and you know it."

"But it is her fault!”, Harry protests. “If she never showed up, you’d still be the Niall you turned into after it all ended, you know. We could do coke, smoke, hang out, fuck hookers- I wouldn’t be crying over a girl I barely knew, but fuck, no, of course you had to fucking get with a serial killer, Horan, what else is new? I fucking hate you.”

Harry’s crying now, sobbing to be more specific. “I’m gonna call the damn cops.”, he says.

"No!", Niall shouts. "Harry, fuck, don’t!"

"Don’t worry.", Harry groans. "I know what to do."

"What do you mean?", I ask.

"You’ll hear it.", Harry dryly says. "You’ll see it."

The top floor of his house is crashing down now. We really have to leave this place before the tres around catch fire, too.

"I don’t ever want to see you again.", Harry snarls.

I can’t fucking breathe.

And then, finally, he lowers his arm.

"Go.", he says, looking at me. "Run."

Niall doesn’t hestitate. He grabs my arm and starts running, pulling me with him, into the green forest around.

Harry let us go.

"Come, Morgan, come on, baby, come here!", Niall pants, before he immediately stops in the shadow of a big plam tree, pulling me into a tight hug. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.", he says. He’s shaking. Just now I realise how close we were to getting shot by his best friend.

I close my eyes and think of Fefe. Niall wipes away my tears with his raw thumbs.

And then, we hear it. In the distance, right in the direction where we came from. Right in front of Harry’s house. Or whatever’s left of it in the burning hell I raised in paradise. It’s my fault. Everything is my fault. Harry lost the only thing of true value in his abundance of luxury. And it’s my fault. I killed people. Knowingly, today. I can’t blame that on whatever the fuck is wrong with my head. And Niall. The man I love, suffers. And he’ll fucking go to jail. Because of me. It’s all my fault. What can we do to save ourselves? Aren’t we fucking dammned anyway? Fuck yes, we are. Whatever began that night back in London, where he took me home with him is ending now.

"I love you.", Niall repeats.

And I want to tell him that I love him, too. But I can’t. The moment I open my mouth, the echo of a gunshot tears through the silence around us. That was Harry’s gun going off.

He said we’d hear it. And we did.

The last thing that I hear of Harry Styles is the loud bang a man like him deserves to say goodbye with.


	24. Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just feels different for everybody.

Fiona Lenka grew up on carnivals. She had wanted to become an actress before she could even spell Hollywood. As the second of three sisters, she never played the starring role in her family. Her older sister Maria was an incredibly intelligent girl. Her parents, both Romanian immigrants, saved all the money their little circus yielded to enable her to go to college. Fiona’s younger sister, Katalina, was gifted, too. She learned ropedancing at four, was light as a feather, flexible as if there was no bone in her fleet little body. Fiona only knew how to juggle with burning torches.

Outshined by her siblings and therefore often neglected by Mr and Mrs Lenka, Fiona learned how to take care of herself at very young age. She relied on her instincts and believed in her dream. The only person she confided in was her grandmother Bredica, a psychic who worked as a fortune teller on carnivals. She was the only one who knew that her daughter, Fiona’s mother, had inherited her powers to her second child.

"It is best to keep it a secret.", Bredica said. "People won’t believe you. And those who do will want you to predict their future. But they don’t want to hear the truth. Fiona, my dear, I lie to my customers. I tell them they’ll be financially stable, healthy and happy, when really, I can already sense the cancer in their lungs. Our power is a dangerous thing that comes with a certain responsibility. It will help you to tell good from evil, but it might turn you into a liar."

When Bredica, Fiona’s only attachement figure, passed away, not even Radu, the distant cousin she had fallen in love with, could keep her on the fairground. Fiona knew it was time to leave and chase her one and only dream. She took the money she had saved everytime an old man with sweaty hands tipped her for a smile, packed her few things and took a Greyhound Bus to Los Angeles. She left a short note. “You will be okay, don’t miss me. I will call you soon. You will see me. On the screens. Love, Fiona.”

Seventeen years old, shelterless but with hopes in her heart that were bigger than her fear of failing. And in fact, only three nights on a bench in Hollywood later, Roy found her. She knew it was naive to trust him, but he reminded her of Jean Renó. And she wanted to be the Mathilda to Léon. It had always stunned her how much faster we trust in a person solely because we find them attractive. And Roy, who said he was thirty, looked fourty and was probably fifty, was the most handsome man dream chaser Fiona had ever seen.

"What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone in the city of angels?", he asked, waiting patiently for her to scoot to the side before he sat down right next to her. "You should know we’re not all angels here."

Fiona just looked him straight in the eyes. Listened to the reliable words of her senses’ voice.

It was ridiculous that even in times of what men called equality, the first thing Fiona thought of, her first reaction the the strange man taking a seat next to her, was that he had bad intentions, that he wanted to rape her. She had lived in fear of this most horrible crime of all for three days straight. She knew it was risky for a girl to walk alone in the dark, with nothing but a bagpack and an empty, growling stomach, but despite her angst, she didn’t want to duck and go back home. Looking Roy in the eyes, she knew he wasn’t dangerous. She knew she could trust him. Not only because he had the countenance of a film noir star. No. There was something paternal about him. A hint of fatherly affection she had missed in Mr Lenka.

Her stomach stopped aching, there was no need to be alarmed. Roy was a good one. And Fiona believed that meeting him was fate.

They talked for three hours, about the circus, the actresses Roy had met and Fiona’s dream of becoming one of them, looking over the valley from the hill she had slept on and sharing a Twix bar Roy claimed to always carry in the pockets of his expensive looking jeans.

Eventually, he clapped his hands once and said: “Fiona, my dear, it’s gotten late.”

The thought of being alone again suddenly hurt. “Where are you going?”, she asked.

"Home.", Roy said. "I live in a big house pretty close to Sunset Strip."

"Do you live alone?"

"Yes.", Roy said.

He reached into the pocket he had pulled out the chocolate from before, grabbing his wallet. Fiona watched as he took a bunch of green notes between his thumb and index finger, then leaned closer to hand it to her.

"Here.", he said.

"I cannot accept that.", Fiona said, feeling her Romanian accent grow thicker as she was struggling with finding the right words. She needed the money. As far as she could see, it were about fivehundred bucks. But she couldn’t let a stranger pay her for nothing. She felt uncomfortable asking, especially because her instincts would have failed her completely if he’d say yes, but she had to: "What do you want me to do? Sex?"

Roy’s sun tanned face went white as chalk. “No, my dear, I don’t want to sleep with you.”, he said. “You must have misunderstood my intentions. Maybe we should have talked less about you, no offense, and more about me. Did you think our conversation was solely the build up to a crime?”

"No.", Fiona said. "No, I could tell you were not like these men, but I don’t understand. Why do you give me so much money?"

Roy reached out for her hand and opened it with his raw fingers, put the banknotes in and closed Fiona’s fingers around them. “Because you need it more than I do.”

"This has to be fate.", Fiona mumbled. "You have to be an angel."

Roy just smiled. “I’m not an angel. But I’ve seen one. And it told me to be a good man and make up for the things I did in the past.”

He winked at Fiona and handed her a little, white card with an adress on it, too.

"If you ever need somewhere to stay at, this is where I live. And this-", he gave her another card, a pink one this time, "is the adress of a friend of mine. He owns an agency for pretty girls like you."

And then, Roy left. Fiona was, of course, determined to see him again. But not too soon. First, she booked herself a little room in a motel downtown, where she took a warm shower and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, talking to her grandmother as if she was in there with her.

“You were the angel the strange man saw, isn’t it so, bunica?”

And just like an answer sent from the heaven above the ceiling of the cheap motel, Fiona switched on the TV to see Léon The Professional was on.

She felt like putting her dream aside when she chose to frequent Roy’s house before calling what she assumed was a modelling agency, but she wanted to thank him, wanted to talk to him, show him how much she appreciated the gift. But when she arrived at what he had called a “big house”, she saw it was nothing but a sad, grey bungalow. Fiona wasn’t used to luxury, but she had imagined a big spender like Roy to live in a place a little fancier than this. She slowly approached the front door, almost stumbling over a broken flower pot and knocked on the wood as there was no bell to see.

Three minutes later, when she had almost given up, Roy opened the door. He was wearing nothing but large boxershorts and white shirt with a big, orange stain on it. He blushed when he saw Fiona. “I’m so sorry, little lady.”, he said. “Please, come in. I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Why?”, Fiona asked. Roy just shrugged.

An hour later, Fiona had found out that Roy was dying. Thyroid cancer, the persistent, evil kind that not even a chemo could cure. The designer clothes he’d worn the day before were the only elegant clothes he had left. He sold most of his possesions to charity. Once a wealthy CEO, he now lived in poverty.

“And what’s funny is that even if I feel the life fading from me with every tick of the clock, even if I live on Twix bars and could soup only, I am now happier than I ever was.”, he said. “I cheated on my wife, I neglected my sons. I was the worst husband and father one could think of. I changed. We all can change. It just takes time. And some sunsets behind the Hollywood hills, selflessness and this guy up there.” He pointed to the ceiling and mouthed “God.”

The strength of his faith in his darkest time delighted Fiona. “God knows you’re a good man.”, she said, reaching out to touch his hand. From the way he flinched she could tell he hadn’t been touched in ages. “I believe in your change. We all deserve a second chance. I will thank you for the rest of my life, Roy.”

A single tear rolled down his face and he nodded. “I didn’t expect you to come back, Fiona. I’m glad you did. You’re gonna go far, child.”

For some reason, under these circumstances, Fiona felt more eased concerning the gift. It was his last wish. And she wouldn’t waste the money. She left by dawn and knew she wouldn’t come back. She wouldn’t have to anyway. Roy died two days after. Fiona knew without looking after him. That night, one star in the sky above shined especially bright. And she knew that Roy was now watching her from above.

The agency turned out to belong to a man called Abraham. He was fascinated by Andy Warhol and made short films inspired by Warhol’s work with Edie Sedgwick, which is why he was constantly looking for pretty young girls. Fiona wasn’t uncomfortable with undressing, both physically and mentally, in front of the old camera. Abraham paid her and promised her she’d make it far, just like Roy said. But after the shooting of Abraham’s nineteenth version of ‘Poor Little Rich Girl’ and the following celebration in a stuffy bar, Fiona and Liz, a friend she had made on set, got drunk with Abraham and his assistant Markus from Germany. The men got touchy and no matter how often Liz and Fiona said “No” and tried to push them away, they were determined to take advantage of the girls’ high blood alcohol level. But Fiona managed to smash a bottle on Abraham’s head. She lost her job, but saved two souls.

Her and Liz, who had a pretty similar history, soon found themselves back at the start. Liz was tempted to give up.

“I can’t do this anymore.”, she said. “I’m never going to make it.”

“Don’t even dare to think that.”, Fiona responded, pulling her into her arms. “You’ll be okay.”

The next morning, Liz had left. With Fiona’s money and the only dress she had bought from what Roy had given her.

Fiona knew it from movies. It was a cliché. She had the body, the smile, the long, blonde hair. She had the willpower and strength to go darkness since she saw the light at the end of the tunnel. And if she’d have to spend her days dancing in the dark of an overheated strip club until she’d reach that light, she would.

Her boss, Cherie, was a woman with taste. She knew what men sneaked out of their Beverly Hills mansion’s for, leaving their wife and two kids behind to inhale the scent of the forbidden passion between the padded, furry walls of Chez Cherie’s Club.

“I gave up on men when I was fourteen.”, she told Fiona. “It’s pretty exciting to own a strip club when you’re an asexual. It’s like working as a butcher when you’re actually vegan.”

Fiona knew very well how to move her body. Maria’s knowledge on biology and Katalina’s flexibility combined, she soon became the most succesful dancer, the girl the men paid extra for.

“Extraordinarily beautiful, mysterious, from a family of Romanian artists- our beautiful, angelic Mirabelle!”

Cherie didn’t let her girls keep their actual names. “You never know if one of these bastards in front of the stage fall in love with their hearts and not just their cocks.”, she said.

Chez Cherie’s Club was neither a cheap, dirty strip club, nor a high-class institution. It was somewhere in the middle. No touching except for tips stuffed in the girl’s fancy panties, which they also kept on. Thongs were the minimum. Family fathers as well as businessmen, as well as baby faced nerds and groups of heavily tattooed men came to Chez Cherie’s to watch Fiona dance. She was great at the pole. Strong enough to lift her body weight, spin around, do splits. Her favourite song to dance to was Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie. It amused the customers that a fragile looking girl like Fiona had a thing for heavy tunes. Rushing from one casting to another in the daytime, dancing for flustered men by night. That was by now eighteen year old Fiona Lenka’s life.

Little did she know the tall man that entered Chez Cherie’s on a midnight in July would change everything. His high cheekbones, piercing green eyes in which she saw her own reflection as she lolled on the stage, seemed familar. Thick, dark curls on his head, ink on his tan skin shining through the thin fabric of his white shirt that sticked to his sweaty chest.

“We have a special guest tonight.”, Rita, stage name Foxy, said to Janina, also known as Cinderella as Fiona entered the dressing room. “Harry Styles.”

Fiona looked up. Harry Styles. She sure knew this name, realised he had been the man at her feet. The man who didn’t take his greedy eyes off her exposed body.

“Fiona! Hey!”, Cherie yelled, entering the dressing room like the tornado her temper resembled. “Get your skinny little ass over here.”

Fiona obeyed, as usual. Cherie was not the type of woman she wanted to fight with. “You may have heard it.”, Cherie whispered so that the other girls couldn’t hear her. “We’ve got a special guest tonight. And he wants a lap dance.”

“I thought I’m not allowed to-“

“In this case, you are. He pays well, Fiona. We’re talking about Harry Styles. I can’t believe he’s here, actually. Damn, fucking hell.” Expecting any kind of reaction in Fiona’s face, Cherie waited for a bit until she sighed and continued: “You’re gonna give him the best lap dance he’s ever had. We’re giving him the private room, don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”

“What if he wants to touch me and-“, Fiona stuttered, but Cherie just rolled her big, brown eyes. “Consider yourself lucky if he does.”, she hissed. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t want to hop on this british bastard’s cracker dick.”

Fiona’s heart was racing as she walked down the illuminated hallway to the first private room. Lap dances were a rare luxury for only few customers. Cherie had forbidden Fiona to give any since she was clearly the most popular dancer and it would only antagonise the other girls. But this time, it was different. Fiona entered the room. A violet rug, dark pink walls. A big chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the stuffy air smelled like musk and roses. The only furniture was a big, throne like golden chair in the middle, and in it, with his long, skinny legs spread and an aquiver smirk on his face, Harry Styles.

Fiona remembered Katalina’s side of the room they shared in their trailer. The walls had been covered in One Direction posters. Chasing the thoughts of whatever Katalina was up to now, Fiona took a deep breath and closed the door behind her. She was beyond excited. Even though she had ran into some more or less famous celebrities on the streets of Hollywood before, being so close to Harry Styles wasn’t comparable to anything she ever felt before: Starstruck and, against her will and absolutely unnecessarily, aroused.

“Lock it.”, Harry said and hearing his low, raspy voice sent an unexpected shiver down Fiona’s spine. She wore nothing but a lacy, dark red bra a garterbelt, a frilly black thong and thigh high stockings black pumps.

“I don’t think this is allowed.”, she responded.

Harry just raised his brows, smacked his lips and asked: “So?”

Fiona turned the keys in the lock and took another deep breath. The music started playing. Was Cherie watching? As far as Fiona knew, there were cameras installed in every room of the club, for the girls’ safety.

“You’re beautiful.”, Harry said, not bothering to hide his british accent. His big hand rested on his thigh, too close to his crotch for Fiona not to keep her eyes on it for a bit too long. She had always thought dancing for attractive customers was easier, but this was the proof it definetely wasnt. “Beautiful Romanian dancer.”, Harry slured. He was drunk, but Fiona couldn’t tell if he was only a little tipsy or completely wasted. He seemed so serious, so focused, he didn’t even blink.

“Atta, little one.”, he lured her, making a come hither movement with his long index finger. “What’s your name?”

He patted on his leg and Fiona sat down. He broke the first rule right at the start, by wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her closer.

“Mirabelle.”, Fiona said, trying to sound as cheeky as she usually was. “I thought you know.”

“Ts, ts, ts. Don’t lie to me. I want to know your real name.”, Harry whispered, gently stroking her side in a way nobody ever caressed her before, not even Radu.

“That is my real name.”, she insisted, trying to stay as calm as she could with the warmth from Harry’s crotch so close to her thigh and his raspy voice tickling her temples.

“Uh-uh. I know how it works. You girls aren’t allowed to tell us dirty, horny men your real names. Don’t want us to stalk you. Hunt you down. Fuck you.”

Fiona flushed. He made a serious topic sound like a joke. He was arrogant, but something about him got her hooked already. “Fiona.”, she gave in. “My name is Fiona.”

“Fefe.”, Harry muttered, brushing her earlobe with his pink lips. “I’m gonna call you Fefe.”

Fiona just nodded. Like this, in the small, warm room on this man’s lap, she became another person. Accepted the nickname he gave her as the one she’d go by, his touch as the most tender kind of physical affection she had ever recieved.

“Dance for me, Fefe.”, Harry then said. And so she got up and did what he told her to. Feeling his hungry eyes staring at her like a hunter at his prey, biting his lip with a self content grin on his flushed face, Fefe know that Harry liked the show she put on. On a trip with the melody of Ain’t It Fun by Guns ‘N Roses, spinning around, slowly teasing him by unhooking the corset and dropping to the floor, not caring about him running his big hands down her sweaty stomach, Fefe soon found herself in an unknown state of ecstasy, drugged by the lust in this man’s eyes. He wanted her. She knew he wanted her. And it pleased her in a way she never knew it would.

His black pants were too tight not to give away the effect the way she moved her body had on him and as soon as she crawled towards him, on her fours like a kitten, he unintentionally put his hand on head as if he was going to lead her on to help him with his little, or rather big problem. She just smiled and got up again, climbing on his lap, straddling him, rubbing her heat against the hard bulge behind the zipper. His face was no longer showing his cocky smile. He looked rather angry, definetly struggling with all the teasing.

“Damn, baby, you’re making me all…”, he began but swallowed the last words.

Fefe didn’t care if anyone was watching through the lenses now.

“Come home with me.”, Harry whispered into her ear. “Before I fuck you right here.”

Fefe just giggled. “No touching.”, she reminded him, even though she did, in no way ,want him to take his hands off her ass.

“I’m begging you, baby, come home with me. I will make it worth your while, baby.”

“No.”, she insisted.

“Yes.”, Harry responded. “Oh yes. By four AM tonight you’ll be a squirming little mess under me.”

“Maybe I like being on top.”, Fefe teased him. He bit his lip and smiled.

“You like to be in control?”

Fefe nodded.

“Fine.”, Harry said. “You can try.”

By four AM that night, Fefe was a squirming mess under Harry Styles. Pushed into the matress of his luxurious bed in the most beautiful bedroom she had ever seen, she came for the third time, crying out his name, before he crawled up between her legs, wiped her juices off his mouth and said: “Turn around, I’m taking your ass now.”

Fefe hated herself for being sad the next day, when he woke up next to her and asked: “You’re still here?”

She hated herself for having thought that he’d want her to stay, for having thought that she’d been an exception. That she’d been special. She thought of what Liz said and for the first time in her life, Fefe considered giving up. Did she get attached so quickly? Was it the house or the fact it was Harry Styles, A-List celebrity, well known, popular bachelor, or was it the way he looked when he had fallen asleep by sunrise, the way he had looked at her between two hard kisses?

She remembered Radu and knew he had found someone else. Returning to the little flat her income at Chez Cherie’s Club had enabled her to rent, she broke down crying on the cold floor, shedding tears for the first time since the night she saw Roy’s star in the dark blue sky.

But Harry called again. Two days later, played the same game. Came to club, demanded a lap dance. Took her home, fucked her, sent her away again. And Fefe hated herself even more when she realised she had become his toy, until, after months of letting him toss her around like a rag doll, she got up before he woke, determined to never come back. As she walked downstairs, she suddenly heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she saw Harry, in nothing but his pyjama pants, with a face that reminded her way too much of how he looked on the posters on Katalina’s walls. And he said a single word, a single word that Fefe thought an angel had put on his tongue: “Stay.”

So she stayed. Harry constantly reminded her he’d have to kick her out at some point, but he didn’t. She returned to her flat a few times, sometimes she went there to read, calm down or pray. But eventually, she quit her job at Chez Cherie’s, went to less castings and made it her main priority to take care of the absolutely insane man Harry Styles turned out to be. She couldn’t help herself. She fell in love. And the bittersweet hope and belief in people’s ability to change for good, the silly idea that Roy had put in her brain two years before, stuck with her and remained the only thing that kept her wishing for the day Harry would realise that she loved him and the day he would fall for her, too.

Regardless of her psychic powers, which were pretty helpful when she encountered Morgan Valentine and Harry’s dear best friend, whom he constantly talked about anyway, for the first time, Fefe never sensed the day had already come.

The wild ride on a rollercoaster of unexpected heights her life had been ever since she left her family behind only got more dangerous when Harry got involved in Nialls’ dangerous plan to protect a killer. A killer he loved. A killer that Fefe got to know as one of the kindest, nicest, and most beautiful, inside and out, women she had ever met.

“You think I’m a freak, you should meet my friend Niall.”, Harry always said. “Niall, Niall, Niall.” It was about his old best friend all the time. Of course he’d protect him. He loved him. Fefe knew that. She didn’t know that Harry loved her, too.

Maybe it was the effect all these lies the press had told about Harry Styles’ lovelife have had on his character. Maybe he had lost his sensibility, maybe he had gotten too proud to commit. He never told her, but he did. It showed whenever he said: “I’ve heard of a casting, Fefe, babe, you should go there.” It showed when he told her to “take care” whenever she left for town. Whenever he brought her a drink or wrapped his arm around her body in his sleep. Seeing through people at first glance, Fefe’s view had been blocked if it came to Harry.

Maybe it was because he didn’t know himself. Because he didn’t know that he was deeply, deeply in love with the stripper he had thought of a nice fuck only at first. But he was. He did. He loved her.

On a sticky hot day in early summer 2023, Fiona Lenka died in the arms of the man who had given her a taste of the life she had dreamed of in the almost empty circus tents she had tried to juggle with torches in. In the end, it was a torch that killed her.

And Harry, who never believed in the stories of angels, spirits and demons Fefe liked to tell, hoped that she had her own star, next to Roy’s and that she could hear those words, the outspoken realisation of something he had always felt, like a fire in his chest as well, from up above. After he shot himself in the leg to do Niall Horan a last favour, he crawled back to her dead body, pulled her into his arms and cried on her shoulder, looking up to the sky. “I fucking loved you, Fefe. I fucking loved you.”

___________________________________________

___________________________________________

___________________________________________

Of course they believe him. He didn’t expect anything else. The excuse “I’m Harry Styles” worked always. No matter what. It was ridiculous. Whoever said the law applied to celebrities in the same way it did to mortal people was fucking wrong. Harry learned that very early in his career. Not getting into the club? “I’m Harry Styles.” Trying to get the wasted girl that’s too drunk to recognise his face to get home with him and suck him off? “I’m Harry Styles.” Customs inspections? “I’m Harry Styles.” Potentital possesion of drugs? “I’m Harry Styles.” He is a god. And Hollywood is his olymp. Maybe it got to his head too much, but he doesn’t care.

All he cares for in this moment is the self inflicted pain of the bullet in his shin and how it, despite the ache, amuses him, that nobody around seems to realise it’s been shot from a weird angle.

“I never saw these men before.”, he lies, his voice still weak from crying over Fefe. “I don’t know who they are or why they decided to burn my fucking house down, but I’m so fucking-“

“Mr Styles, calm down. You’re injured. Stay calm.”, the emergency doctor says as she and her assisants lift him on the red stretcher.

“I can’t stay calm! Who were these men!”, he yells. “I swear I didn’t want to shoot them, but they threatened me, they burned down my house, they killed my-“

“Mr Styles, we all know that. It was self defense. You do not have to worry. You know the law.”, a police officer to Harry’s left says. “You’ve got a brilliant lawyer. You don’t have to worry.”

“They threatened me!”, he repeats, trying hard to sound absolutely devastated and worried about the potentital consquences to what he claims as his actions when it were actually Morgan’s. She wouldn’t get away with it regarding her history, self defense or not. But Harry will. He knows it. He just doesn’t want them to know he does. He’s bleeding, soaking the towel around his leg with thick, dark juice. “Ouch!”, he cries out. “It hurts so bad.”

The only thing that hurts worse is having to watch the other doctors putting a dark blanket over Fefe’s still body. At least all evidence for Niall’s and Morgan’s stay at Harry’s place burned down the millions of dollars building this villa had costed him. But that was only a weak solace for Harry. He was angry. So angry. She should’ve delivered them right to the police. To keep his clean slate. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t fucking bring himself to sacrifice his brotherly love to Niall, couldn’t bring himself to seperate him from the woman he loved so dearly.

“I’m a good fucking person!”, he whimpers, reminding himself why he did all this. “I don’t deserve people burning my shit down.”

“Mr Styles, please.”, the emergency doctor says. “Breathe steadily, stay calm.”

Harry closes his eyes and leans back, waiting to be carried into the back of the ambulance car. It’s hard to breathe steadily. And when he hears what the police officer about seven feet away from him answers to the muffled message on his walkie talkie, he forgets how to generally breathe anyway.

“Downtown this morning? So she’s here. And he’s with her? No, I- Can’t. Fucking Niall Horan. His former mate just got his house burnt down. Proper manhunt. Yeah. You’ll get them. They can’t be far away from here.”

It would be so easy to connect the dots. Harry swallows. Maybe this time, his usual excuse won’t work. And what’s the worst is that he doesn’t worry for his own well being half as much as he worries for Morgan and Niall.

“There we go.”, the emergency doctor says. “Off to the hospital. Calm down, Mr Styles, your pulse is racing, are you okay?”

“No.”, Harry says. “In all honesty, I’ve never been less okay than right now.”

_________________________________

_________________________________

_________________________________

“Where do you want to go, babe?”, he asks. There’s tears in his eyes and his hands are shaking as he intertwines his fingers with mine, watching them connect in, locking me in his tight grip. “We can go wherever we want to go.”

“No.”, I say and smile at him. I don’t want him to lie to me anymore. “It’s over, Niall. We’re trapped. They will find us. No matter where we go, they’ll hunt me. And it’s fine. I deserve it.”

“You don’t deserve it, baby, don’t ever say that.” He leans in to kiss my forehead. We’re standing in the middle of the goddamn forest somewhere far up the hills behind Hollywood and it feels as if the world has stopped turning. Niall’s ash covered chest is rising at fast pace, strands of hair stick to his face. He’s just a shadow of the man against the kitchen counter, and even then he was just a taste of what he used to be back in the golden years with the good looking boys and their hysterical girls, eating an apple, making the green fruit look like the most delicious good that ever grew in the world he claimed as his. His little kingdom is shattered by now. And we can’t build ourselves a new one. Can’t find a distant island somewhere in the raging ocean or life has become. It’s all over now. And he knows it, too.

“It’s over, Niall. Harry is dead.”, I say. “They’ll know.”

“Harry is not dead!”, Niall says, shaking his head with a smile between insanity and relief.

“You heard the gun going off, Niall, don’t lie to me anymore!”, I hiss. “You lied enough!”

“But darling, baby, do you really think a man like Harry Styles would kill himself? You don’t know him that well it seems. He would never do that. See, I don’t kow where the bullet went, but I know it wasn’t his head. Harry would never do that. Harry knows that he can get away with anything. He would never end his life on purpose. He’s too deeply in love with it and himself.” Niall seems so sure about that, but I don’t understand. It seems likely, regarding the loss of the only person he probably loved. Besides Niall, who’s also hopelessly lost. Harry gave up on saving him. And he couldn’t safe Fefe. So why would he want to live on?

Suddenly, I can think of a dozen, no, fifty, hundred, thousands of reasons why. Years ago, I could barely think of one thing to keep fighting for. But holding on to my stupid, naive hope, I made it. Crossed the line. Now, I know that surviving, believing in the goddamn light in the dark you may find yourself lost in is worth it. The sun keeps rising every morning, no matter what. And one day, Harry will wake up and know that it’s shining for him. And that’s why living on is worth it.

“Do you think so?”, I ask. “Is that true? Are you sure Harry didn’t-“

“Absolutely sure baby, don’t worry, don’t worry. See, I know what they used to say. Harry’d be the first to go solo. Harry would be the Robbie Williams of our band, the Nick Carter. Regardless of the fact if anyone in One Direction was Nick Carter, it was me”- he chuckles and I admire how he’s able to smile even now - “but I and the other boys, we always knew that Harry would stay. The band meant everything to Harry. He’s such a good, good person. Such a good, good heart. He’s only playing tough and cool. He’s probably the best man I ever met in me whole life, goddamn, Harry, he fuckin’ saved our asses more than once, Morgan, more than once. This man knows. He knows what to do. He knows how to handle his own fuckin’ business and how to subtly take care of everyone else without them even noticing. Harry Styles knows what to do. And he would never kill himself, Morgan. When we felt that One Direction was comin’ to and end, Harry was the one who kept writing songs. He was the last one to accept that it was over. Don’t worry about him. He’s a fighter. Just like you, baby, just like you.”

He pulls his hand back and strokes my cheek, mouthing “Baby” over and over again.

I just look at him. I could stare into his fucking eyes forever. But it’s all coming to an end for us now, too.

“Go back to our house?”, he asks. “They won’t find us.”

“Niall, stop.”, I whisper. “You’re only making it worse for the both of us. You’re hurting me.”

“No, baby, no!”, he quickly whimpers, “I don’t want to hurt you. Babe, maybe we’ll be lucky. Maybe we’ll be fine! Who knows! Look at how crazy these times are. Mad times, baby, mad times. Maybe everything is going to be alright, have you lost all yer faith in me? Lost all yer faith in your man?”

I bury my head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his sweat, burnt flesh and dust.

"I’ll never lose faith in you, Ni.", I whisper. "You’re the only thing I ever really believed in. You’re the only real voice in my head. The only voice I can rely on. You’re real, Niall, and you gave me the most wonderful, fucked up, yet wonderful reality I could have ever dreamed of. But it’s over now, Niall, it’s all over."

“Baby girl, don’t cry, please don’t cry.”, he begs, wrapping his arms around my body so tight it feels like we’re melting into each other in the heat between the trees. But I have to cry. My tears land in the little pan on his shoulder blades. He puts his big hand on the back of my head, kissing my hair, mumbling: “Don’t cry baby, shhhh. Don’t cry. Shhh, baby, shhh. I got you, baby. I got you.”

A sudden memory of my father holding me like this, after I had overheard an argument he had had with my mother takes me back to the time before the monster took over. If only I could have met Niall before I had sealed my own fucked up fate. But back then, he was just a boy on a poster. And I was a girl with a scarred reflection.

“Aye, baby.”, Niall suddenly says in a surprisingly content voice. “Come.”

He steps back, wraps his arm around my wrist, his favourite possessive gesture and starts walking. Just straight forward, into the direction we came from.

“What are you doing?”, I ask. I’m not fighting him anymore. I will go wherever he goes. I know where I’ll end up anyway.

“Just come.”, he says and smiles. His eyes are glassy, blue crystals in his dirty, bloody face. He takes a turn, we’re not going back to Harry’s place. Or what used to be his place. I can smell the ocean, feel the breeze. We’re heading to the beach.

The trees become reed and it cuts my legs, but I don’t care. We step out of the forest on a dune. The sky above is silver.. Niall turns to me and smiles. I feel like I’m sentenced to death and this is my last hour in freedom. The bitter taste of goodbye lies on our tongues as we lean in for a hard, salty kiss. “Come.”, he says. And of course, I follow.

He leads me down the dune and we stumble, rolling down the sandy hill, laughing like children. The grains stick to our sweaty skin. There’s some people around, walking their dogs, sitting there on a towel just staring at the dark blue ocean. Barely any waves today, the offshore wind is steady. Niall catches me, pulls me against his body and tickles me. Have we ever acted so silly? In the most inappropriate moment, I relive the seldom days of reckless childhood joy I had missed so badly. Niall giggles like a little boy as well and I see his six year old self in front of me, a dark haired, freckled boy in a green jersey, talking in that thick irish accent I had fallen for. Miles and miles away from whatever stadium he had watched Derby in back then, I sat in my room and cried over my father leaving. We had no idea in what tragic way our paths would cross. But despite it all, I would never, ever want to turn back time and not go home with him that night.

Niall Horan is the worst and the best thing that has ever happened to me. The bitter taste you wake up with, but also the first bite off a sweet, warm muffin after starving for days. He’s the rain storm on the first day of your long awaited holidays, but the bright sun on the first day of school that makes dealing with the pressure so much easier. He’s the song you just can’t get out of your head, stuck on your mind, playing on repeat, but when you hear it on the radio, you turn the volume up and smile because damn, in some way, it is your song. He’s the hole in your chest that you can barely fill by holding on to a pillow at night and pretending someone was there, but that someone is him, and when he’s there, you cannot remember the ache or the emptiness, or the yearing, the sadness, the confusion. When he’s there, you’re complete. I’m complete. Niall is the fucked up movie that made you cry before, because, for fuck’s sake, Mufasa fucking dies, but you watch it again. And again. Because the sunrise at the end of this fucking film, the warmth those fucking lions feel as they look up to the sky and see the image of their lost king in the clouds, when everything is over and all the pain has ended, when heaven on earth becomes reality in a made up world,- that’s Niall Horan. I fucking hate him, I love him so much.

I love him with all the shards of my broken heart because his calloused hands keep them together, with all my body that I’m willing to give to him entirely just like he gives his to me, so deeply, down to the pits of my black fucking soul, so much it consumes me. I cannot let him go. I cannot be without him. Because I know that he feels the same about me. That he loves me. God, I love him so much.

The way he smiles at me as he pulls me on his lap in the sand, how he points at the ocean, at a lonely ship in the distance, saying “Look babe, where d’ya think they’re going? This seems to be a cruise ship. Do ya think they’re goin’ to the Hawaii?”

I shrug. He spreads his legs and I lean my back against his chest. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my temple. “D’ya wanna go to Hawaii with me, too?”

“Yeah.”, I say, even though I know there is no chance we’ll get there any time soon. But I do. I want to go to Hawaii with him. I wanna go everywhere with him.

“Do you know that Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love got married on Hawaii? In their pyjamas, on the beach. A beach like this. I can imagine us doin’ this, too.”, he says.

“This was a proposal, wasn’t it? This time it really was.”, I laugh, thinking back to the day we spent at my flat, where he claimed I was oh so in love with him. Oh yes, I was. I just never told him. I never fucking told him until now.

“Yeh. Not gonna deny it, you know. Under the given circumstances, I think it doesn’t require a ring or a long speech, in all honesty, I’ve never been into that. I remember the speech I held at my brother’s wedding. I was so nervous. Can you imagine that? Selling out stadiums in less than ten minutes but shitting my pants talking about the happy couple in front of my family. A part of me got kind of melancholic back then, actually. Goddamn, I was so young. I had no clue. Think I wanted to have this, too. When I saw them, so happy, I thought to myself that I want that, too. But different.”

“Mhm.”, I mumble. “I never even imagined that anybody would want to marry me. But if so, I always pictured a really small wedding. Not even in a church. Maybe one of these vegas like chapels. Just me and him.”

“Him? Who is he?”, Niall asks and pulls me closer to tickle my stomach. I feel something wet on my cheek. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to see him crying. He tries so hard not to let it show.

“I never knew. But then I met this absolutely fucking weirdo who got me drunk and took me to his place and never even really told me about all the details of that night. He was a fucking freak, but turns out I’m even worse! He has a lot of fucked up kinks, but he fucks like he was born for it. He’s a drug addict and a proper asshole. But I’m an addict, too. And by far not the kind of person you want to meet in a lonely alley at night, I’m afraid.”

“Made for each other.”, Niall says. “Simply made for each other.”

“Yes.”, I say. I don’t doubt it anymore.

“Maybe I should just take you back to Ireland and marry you there. We can move into a tiny little house like the one I grew up in. I will grow a beard and work at Tesco. If you want, we can make a baby some day, too. We just have to get a fake identity again. It’s pretty easy, actually.”

“What psychotic, crazy woman are you gonna let them name me after this time? How about we just go for, I don’t know, Chucky and Tiffany?” In some way, joking around, covering up how sad and scared we are, pretending the sand under us doesn’t feel like hot coal, pretending we’re not tempted to turn our heads and check if the police is coming for us, really helps. This is the game that Niall played from the first night on.

He laughs and kisses my cheek. “Good idea, babe. Who knows, maybe the ship’s destination is Dublin!”

“You know we’re on the west coast, Niall.”, I remind him. “They’d take about a million extra miles.”

“So? In the end, they’ll arrive. In the end, they’ll get there. And no matter how long the way, if you get to your destination, it was worth it.”, he says. “Plus, my dad used to say all roads lead to Ireland.”

“Yeah, right. I heard that, too.”

We listen to the soothing sound of the sea for a while. I feel like there’s a storm coming. The horizon’s getting darker. The family closest to us packs their things and leaves.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to make it so far that I’d be so famous I could never die.”, Niall suddenly says. “I wanted to sell out arenas, sell records. Be remembered for my records. When actually talented musicians started to give the band the amont of recognition I had always wished for, damn, I thought I was in paradise, man. I thought that they’d make me immortal. Because if you make an impression, if you leave something behind, you will live on in people’s memory. That makes you immortal in some way. Elvis, Michael Jackson. Jimi fucking Hendrix. Kurt Cobain, too. Amy Winehouse. Dead, but not really. Immortal. At least until the day the last fuckin’ person stops listening to their songs, but that day will be the day of the goddamn apocalypse.” He swallows hard. “I was in it for the fun, mainly. But I wanted that, you know. The power, the glory. The fuckin’ fame. At some point, I started to feel invincible. Like nothing could kill me. Zayn and Louis had been doin’ drugs ever since. Liam refused to and I knew there was no way to get a humble man like him to only do a single line. He was fine with his cigs and the occasional blunt. But Harry and me, we sort of slipped into that at some point. Started in around 2014. I was a good boy. I still am. But life was just so fuckin’ fast, so fuckin’ loud. It was just… fuck, I thought it would never end. All I wanted was the goddamn power and glory to become immortal. But I’m not. People rarely listen to our songs anymore. After all, it was all about our faces and our cocks. They took the music for granted, like a free sauce at McDonalds. I put my fuckin’ heart into my goddamn solos and they fucking wrote I killed them. Fuckin’ wrote I was the least talented.” He clenches his fists and I put my palm over it.

“But I knew I wasn’t.”, he says. “All the drugs and the shit I pulled in the last years, I was just mourning, baby, just mourning. A part of me fucking died. And I still just wanted it back. Still just wanted to be known as the guy I saw in the mirror when I was high and confident. But when I met you I suddenly wanted something else, you know? You. Being with you. I wouldn’t trade you for anything in the world, Morgan, please, I love you fuckin’ much.”

I press my lips together, tears are blinding me again. He kisses my neck, then starts to blow raspberries on my skin. I laugh despite my urge to cry about what he just said and he calls me his favourite little girl.

“Niall, what if I forget about you?”, I interrupt the silence afterwards. This is what I’m most afraif of. If they come and take me away and put me in a padded cell, will the image of his smile fade from my dizzy brain? Will I not be able to remember what his kisses, his hands on my body felt like? Will I make up a new story to cover up the pain losing him caused me? Will I have to lie to myself again and erase him from my memory solely to survive? I don’t want that. I don’t want that at all. That would be the worst thing that could ever happen to me. “What if I just lose it again? What if the voices tell me that they don’t know who you are?”

“Morgan, hey.”, he whispers, grabbing my chin to make me turn around. “Look at me. You will not forget me, baby. Remember what you said about my voice. It’s the strongest one in your head. The only voice that is real. I will always be with you. And you don’t have to worry anyway. How could you forget about someone who will be with you until the day you fucking die?”

“Niall, you know they’ll try to tear us apart.”, I cry, wrapping my arms around his neck, making him lay down on his back. I don’t care if I choke him, I need him close, I need to feel him. “They won’t let me see you, I remember what it was like at the Bethlem Royal. What if they try to make me believe in all the lies again? What is my illness is stronger than-“

“Shhhh.”, he hushes me. “Nothing, Morgan, nothing in this whole fucking world is stronger than what you and I have, okay? Hey, silly, look at me. Look at me, baby. Nothing. They cannot ever fucking tear us apart, Morgan. I will do anything, Morgan, anything for you. Just like you did anything you could for me.”

“But Niall, I fucking killed-“

“Shhh. I know. It’s fucked up. But I killed, too. Babe, love’s not like in the fuckin’ movies. There’s nothing pure about it, you know that.”

“You’re absolutely fucking, insane. Love.”, I whisper. “Is that love, yeah?”

“Yeh. Our own impurity. No one can take it away from us.”

He grabs my face and kisses me hard. I taste blood. He’s so warm, shaking, sweating, trying too hard to play the calm, realiable man he thinks he has to be for me. Trying so hard to make me believe that we can get through this. I want to believe him. So, so bad.

“You will not forget me, for fuck’s sake Morgan.”

“I won’t.”, I say. I know I can’t. They can erase my fucking memory if they want to, my own fucking sickness can consume every little thought of mine, but no one and nothing can wash away the dirty stains that Niall’s love has left on my soul. No one can ever take this away from me. This will last until the day I die. And I’m pretty sure whatever part of hell I’m going to afterwards, Niall will wait there for me, with his typical cocky fucking smirk, opening his arms to, once again, and for all times, prove me, that he was right. Always right. The only thing in my life that’s ever been right.

“You know what, Morgan?”, he asks. “That night you stayed over. The first night, you know. I didn’t tell you everything about it.”

“What do you mean? We didn’t fuck, please Niall, don’t tell me that we-“

“No, oh god, Morgan, do you listen to yourself? ‘f course we didn’t. But we fell asleep next to each other. At least we tried.”

“What do you mean?”, I ask.

“I mean that you stared at me like a fucking psycho, in the dark, smiling like a goddamn freak. I was pretty scared. But I liked it. Got a glimpse of who you are already then. I loved it. I asked you ‘Why are you starin’ at me?’ and you just giggled and asked me ‘What would you do if I fell in love with you?’ I laughed and said ‘You don’t even know me. You have no idea what kind of person I am. You probably only know me from magazines, I know what it’s like.’ But you shook your head and said ‘I don’t read magazines. And you don’t know me either. You probably wouldn’t want someone like me to fall in love with you, anyway.’ You smiled at me and closed your eyes. You had a clear moment there, Morgan. I think you knew exactly what you said. I think that maybe, it doesn’t take a blackout or the total confrontation I put you through to make you see who you are, what you did, what you suffer from. I think that sometimes, it only takes, well, a bit of alcohol maybe. A hand you can hold. And the safe feeling of darkness surrounding you. That’s why I’m not afraid, Morgan. I’m not afraid that you’ll forget any of this. Call me crazy, arrogant, call me whatever you like. But I think the pain I put you through healed you.”

He is right. It didn’t only take him. I made it mostly on my own. Because I knew that I could be strong. Because I was determined. He gave the power I needed. He gave me what I never had. Love. The most fucked up kind of love, but true love. True fucking, selfless love.

“Come. Get up, babe.”, he says, helping me to get back on my feet. Grabbing my wrist as usual, he leads me to the water. “Take off your shoes, babe, come.”

We step forward. The water is cold, it’s making me shiver. Niall wraps his arms around my waist from behind. “Maybe we can just stay here? Seems pretty safe.”

“Niall.”, I say. “Stop.”

“You’re right, babe. I should stop.”, he mutters. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m just so scared. For the first time in my life, I’m fucking terrified. And I don’t know what to do. I wish I could ask my father. You know he said I knew more about life than him, but he was wrong. I wish I could ask him.”

“Your father would kick your ass if he knew you’re in love with a girl that is going to jail.”

“You’re not going to jail.”

“To an asylum then. Even worse.”, I mumble, but Niall hushes me.

“My father would have been absolutely endeared by you, Morgan Valentine. So shut up. Even Harry liked you. Harry liked you so much. God, I haven’t had any coke in centuries I think. I love you so much.”

We walk on until we’re knee deep in the ocean.

“I wish I could take you to Hollywood again. Relive the day we had there. Or head back to London. Go to the club where we met. Take you to my flat. Watch you eat that fuckin’ apple again and again and again. Or just one more time. One more time would be enough. Our first kiss, just one more time. And I would come before you cut yourself. I would take the fucking blade and toss it out of the window and kiss your arms and tell you that-“

“Niall?”, I interrupt him. My voice cracks. My heart is racing. He turns to me, squeezing my hand. His eyes widen. I need to tell him. It’s about time. I have never in my left felt anything as intense, as overwhelming as the love I feel for Niall fucking Horan.

“What babe, what?”, he asks. “What is it?”

And that’s when I hear the sirens. So close already. The ocean muffled them, like it wanted us to have a last moment of peace before the strange men in uniforms come to take me away me from him. A little bit of freedom before they put me in handcuffs and make me pay for my guilt. I hear thunder in the distance, black clouds darken the sky.

“Baby, come here.”, Niall grabs my arm and starts walking, just along the border where the little waves are crashing, but it’s hard to walk in sand, it’s hard to walk in general. I can’t fucking walk anymore. “Come, baby, come.”, he says, alarmed now.

But I know there’s no use in running away.

“Babe, why are you hestitaning, come!”, he shouts, shaking me. “Baby, Morgan, hey, please! Look at me, Morgan, look at me!”

But all I see are the policemen by the dunes, running towards us. With guns in their hands. If they want to shoot us, they better do it right now. While I’m still so close to him. While he’s still holding me.

I wait for my body to give in and faint, but I’m standing still. Niall grabs my face and kisses me. “It’s not over, okay? Everything is going to be okay, little one.”

“Yes.”, I say. “I know.”

The people on the beach turn their heads, get up. A young girl screams out. I’m caught in a slow motion film. The sticky , damp heat, the strong scent of approaching rain is numbing me. I keep my eyes locked with Niall as they yell “We found them!” and tackle him into the wet sand. Another one yanks my arms behind my back and forces me on my knees in the same moment. My body wants to fight him off, but I know it’s better to just let it happen. Why are they being so rough? The officer behind Niall grabs him by his hair, pulls on it, making him tilt back.

“Niall Horan?”

I look at Niall’s neck, his veins popping out. His mouth hangs open, he gasps for air, not even blinking. He’s looking at me as he says: “Yes.”

The man behind me tightens his grip before he aks: “Morgan Valentine?”

I nod. “Yes.”

They pull me back on my feet and I lose eye contact with Niall. The officers behind him pull on his arms like he’s an animal on the loose.

“You’re arrested on a charge of murder. Both of you.” I hear the handcuffs snap around my wrist, where Niall’s fingers should be.

“The C-List Celebrity and his psycho slut.”, one of the cop mutters, believing we don’t hear it.

“You take that back.”, Niall growls, managing to pull his hand out of one man’s grip, hauling off to punch the one who said it. But the cop is quicker. He puts the cuffs around Niall’s wrist and yanks his arm down again, making him cry out in pain.

“Be careful!”, I yell. “Don’t fucking hurt him!”

The cop who insulted me just rolls his eyes. He clears his throat and gives us the Miranda rights. “You have the right to remain silent when questioned. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning, if you wish. If you decide to answer any questions now, without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney.”

"You’ve got the fuckin’ righ t kiss me ass.", Niall grumbles.

"Oh, we have a stubborn little ram.", the cop behind me says. "Popstars these days. Heard Calvin’s got the Styles kid on a stretcher. Won’t stop yelling. His house burned down. Can’t wait to fucking connect the dots here."

I’m tempted to sigh in relief, but I can’t let them see how glad I am Harry’s alive. I just look at Niall, wishing I would have had the chance to tell him what I feel before the cops arrived.

They drag us up the beach, back to the dunes where they parked their cars. Niall’s fighting, screaming at them, cussing in the thickest irish accent. “Yer gonna have t let us go very soon again anyway.”, he says. “Ya’ll see tat. Morgan, babe, I promise ya we’ll be alright, yeh? Look at me babe, look at me.”

I look at him, but the cop pulls my hair. I wonder if that’s legal. Maybe it’s different when it’s not robbers, but killers.

When Niall and I realise that they’re, of course, going to put us into two different cars, he turns his head and spits right in the officer’s face, laughing at how disgusted the tall man gets.

I wish he wouldn’t make it this hard for us.

"Morgan, baby! Hey!", he yells at the top of his lungs as they shove him towards the police car. "Everythin’s goin t be okay! I fucking love ya!"

The cop pulls on my arm, my ankle hurts, I’m nauseous. All I see is Niall’s exhausted, but smiling face about twenty feet away from me. “I love you!”, he yells again. “I promise you we’ll be alright!” He kicks the cop’s shin to keep him from pushing him down on the backseat. They go rougher now, of course. They grab his head and force him into the car.

The sirens are still howling. I see a bolt of lighting in the sky above, a clash of thunder sounds. It starts to rain, just like that, in a blink, heavy, thick raindrops.

"We’ll be okay!", Niall yells.

The cop behind me pushes me towards the other car.

"Niall?", I cry out, turning around to him again to catch a last glimpse of his bloody, flushed face, his big blue eyes, his parted lips, in the back of goddamn fucking police car.

"Yeh, baby?", Niall asks. "Tell me, baby, tell me what you wanted t say!"

The officer hurts me, but I fight back, letting him toss me around like a doll. I don’t care. I just need Niall to know. In the soaking rain on a dune by the highway, I say three words I never said in that context before in my whole life. I scream them out and they burn in my lungs.

"Niall!", I cry out. "I love you!"

"I love you too, babe!", he responds, all pale now. "Fuck, babe, I love you so much!"

Maybe we should have just shout ourselves like Bonnie and Clyde. But the cop manages to shove me into the car, blocking my view, slamming the door to keep me from escaping. I’m all alive and breathing heavily. In fact, I’ve barely ever felt this alive.

"You hear me, Niall?", I scream. "I fucking love you!"

"Count your blessings.", the cop mutters as he gets in the car.

"So fucking much.", I mumble to myself before I black out. "I love you so fucking much, Niall."

_______________________________________

_______________________________________

_______________________________________

If Niall and Morgan never met, Niall would have carried on slowly killing himself with every little line he snorted. Losing himself in lies about a great comeback, memories of a golden age that was now nothing but darkness. Morgan would have lived in a web of lies, blacking out, waking up with scars of her arm and stamps of the club she went to the night before, with no memory of whatever happened in the flashing lights. Both slowly approaching an early end of the dramatic path downhill their lives had been. In the desperate need of a new, more satisfying addiction.

Both deeply dedicated to their impure thoughts and sadness, they didn’t doubt that there was a hint of evil in their broken souls. After all, there was a dark side to everyone. Some showed it without fear, some used it. Niall hid it. Because it was more like a cruel bacterium he carried in his organs. And when he saw Morgan, it germed. She made the hard shell of this ulcer leak. Its poison coursed into his veins as she infected him with her own darkness.

But they lit a fire in the pits of the pitch black hell of hate and sex and drugs and songs that nobody cared for anymore, unless pretty girls moved along to the rhythym. None of them believed in soul mates. Not really. But maybe the shattered pieces of their hearts fit together perfectly. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it were lucky circumstances. Whatever causes a storm tide in the middle of a dry summer. Whatever causes flames on ice that has been there for centuries. Whatever causes the violet, pink and light blue wafts of mist, the Nothern Lights, on the horizon. A blood stain you can’t wash off your favourite dress. A scar that’ll last forever. A sin that can never be forgiven. Yet, after all, the most beautiful thing two strangers in a stuffy club in London could have found that night.

____________________________________

____________________________________

____________________________________

With his shades on despite the uncomfortable darkness in the empty hallway, he walks straight to the reception counter like window. He’s still limping a little. He’s whistling Twisted Nerve as he keeps walking, hands in the pockets of his black coat, the little heels of his boots making a clack-clack-clack noise that echoes from the blank walls.

It smells like disinfectant and piss at the same time in this building. Everything looks pretty clean, but the stench is unbearable.

“Excuse me.”, he says, realising that as soon as he had crossed the frontiers, his accent had, almost magically, intensified again as well.

“Yes, Sir?”, the woman behind the window asks through a microphone.

He pulls the envelope out of his pockets and slides it through the little gap beneath the glass. The woman gives him a confused look, but grabs and opens it. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops.

“My name”, he says, leaning in so close his breath fogs the window, “is Harry Styles. I’m here to see my friend Niall Horan.”


	25. Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being me can only mean   
> feeling scared to breathe

Before you start reading! Hi! It’s 2.30 AM where I am, I’m sitting here with a bottle of Coke Zero and a half empty cup of green tea. My stomach aches a little, so does my neck, and I’m crying as well. I’m not complaining, it’s all worth it. And no, I’m not crying because I’m deeply touched by my own writing, it’s just that this is the last chapter of a story that I started writing in January, - it is July now,- and therefore, a chapter of my life is ending as well. I have lived with the Niall I created as well as with Morgan, Doctor Rossdale, Fefe, and my absoulte favorite, my darling Harry, for about 180 days now and I know that they will live on with me forever. This is just a silly fanfiction about a man who doesn’t even know that I exist,- I sound like a sulky teenager right now, for which I’m very sorry, but it has a very special meaning to me. This story is not just a piece of fiction. Some ‘shards’, that’s how Morgan calls them, of my own heart stick in the scar this story will leave on me. Writing it wasn’t always making things up. It was writing about what I know as well as about what I wish I’d know. It was nights dedicated to praising Niall and other nights dedicated to ruining the life I gave him. It was joining Morgan on her journey, which made me gain a little strength as well. It was having to keep quiet about something I knew from the first chapter on but revealed to you- and Morgan - twenty chapters later. This story has definetly left a mark on me. I want to thank you, yes you, especially you, for reading this. For sticking with Morgan and trusting the dark Niall I created, for putting up with Harry’s lame jokes and joining Doctor Rossdale’s investigations. For talking about this fic on Twitter. I know that many of you have found my blog through this fic. So I owe Impurity a lot. And I owe you a lot, too. I know that a writer should, in first place, write what they personally read. But I’d be nothing without other readers. Without you. I’m completely honest here, your support over the last months was amazing. I started barely noticed and now, there’s people mentioning my fic along big names and it’s, in all honesty, one of the best feelings I have ever ever ever felt in my whole life. I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope that by the end of this chapter, you won’t quit Impurity. Maybe, it will stick with you for a little longer. Maybe you will think of it whenever the actual Niall acts like a psychotic little freak again, or when you listen to The Neighbourhood or eat a green apple. I sure will. And I’ll think of you, too. Thank you so much. So fucking much. I love you.

Also, there’s an epilogue coming soon after this, which is going to answer some questions- and maybe bring up new ones. I also consider writing something on all the unanswered questions you might want answered afterwards. But for now, here’s the last chapter of Impurity.

Enjoy.

______________________________________________

It’s the tenth day or the eleventh, I lost count, and in all honesty, I don’t care. Time has no meaning anymore. Even though I’m back where I used to be, it’s different. No need to count the days. I’m just waiting. And I don’t care for how long. I don’t want to know the exact number of days. One day is too much. So are two, three, four.

I was scared, so scared, when they took me back. Afraid the ghosts in the walls would come and haunt me. Reunite with the ones inside of me, feed the monster. They didn’t take me back to Zoe. They put me into a dark, lonely room. Like a prison cell. But in all honesty, I don’t care. They could put me in a cave, kick me like a beast for slaughter, they could leave me starving, crawling in my own fucking piss, yet the only pain I’d be able to feel would be the pain of missing him.

It wasn’t half as bad as I thought. Doctor Rossdale was there. She listened to me. Even when I didn’t want to talk. She sat there, looked at me. One time, with a seriously concerned face, she asked: “How do the nurses treat you, Morgan?”

“They don’t hurt me. They try to avoid me, I think. They’re distant. They treat me like a serial killer.”

She laughed and I could tell she was ashamed of it. “Well, that’s because you are one.”

Everytime she came around, I asked her about Niall. I know she talked to Zayn who talked to Harry. There was a chance she knew where Niall was. How he was. And how the nurses or warders treated him. Which concerned me more than how my old friends at the Bethlem Royal treated me. I asked several times. “Where is Niall?”, “Can you tell me where Niall is?”, “Is Niall alright?”, savouring the sound of his name in the little room everytime I said it, like a sacred verse. His name was a prayer to me. Ni-all.

“I am not allowed to inform you, Morgan.”, she said, honest pity in her voice. “You know that.” Sometimes, she reached out to stroke my cheek. She was so nice to me. For the first time in my life, I realised that she really liked me. Realised that she surely didn’t treat every patient like that. Realised that was worried about me, truly worried. That she cared for me. I hadn’t been aware of that before I met Niall.

“How are the voices?”, she asked. I could see in her eyes that she was expecting a negative answer.

Like everyone else here, she seems to be convinced I’ll snap. It’s saddening to know that your own therapist expects you to be immune to their treatment. It’s not like she doesn’t try. But I think she’s not aware of the strength I have gained. I wouldn’t know how to prove it to her, though.

It’s just that I’m prepared now. They all expect me to lose it again, to give in to the monster. But if this bastard wants to fight me, I’m ready.

“Not quiet.”, I honestly said. “They’re screaming at me. Some are happy to be back. Some are plotting an escape. Some-” I inhaled deeply, knowing I’d come off like the psychopath they all think I am, “want me to rip my hair out and scratch my skin and hit myself like I used to. They’re revolting. They’re trying to find a way to numb the pain, but I know better. Nothing could hurt more than being away from him. Not knowing where he is.”

I could see something in Doctor Rossdale’s face, a stir, a change in her eyes and it made me wonder if she had ever been in love.

It’s funny how she knows every little thing about me, more than I ever did, do and will, and I don’t even know if she’s married. I think about her sometimes now, wonder what she’s like in private. But it’s hard to imagine. Back then, she’d always only been her job to me. There to listen to me, ask me questions, take notes, treat me. Back then, when I was convinced that I was just a patient to her, a difficult case, but just a case. Now that my head feels clear and my emotions so real, now that I’m, well, alive, I am aware that she’s more than that. She’s really the closest to a mother I ever had. A better mother than my actual one. I know she risked a lot for me. Did a lot for me. Fought for me. And I’m thankful for that.

I never understood how people selflessly stand up for others, defend them, even though there’s nothing in it for themselves. But I do now. Love, the most irrational thing in the world, made everything a little easier to explain. Love was a good reason at all times.

“I am so sorry.”, Doctor Rossdale replied. “What about the loud voice? The one you told me about. The bad one. The most powerful one. The monster, how you called it?”

“It’s not the loudest anymore.”, I answered.

“Which one is the loudest now?”

“There’s two.”

She just nodded, took a note on her clipboard and looked at me, waiting for a further explanation.

“Niall’s voice.”, I began. “And… my own voice.”

A smile brightened up her face. “Your own voice?”, she repeated.

“Yes.”, I said. “For the first time ever, I can hear myself. Clearly, and very loud. But I’m not screaming. I’m not crying. I’m not trying to tell myself lies to make reality a little easier to endure. I just remind myself that I’m gonna be okay. And it’s not a fucking mantra, not one of these lies that Niall told me for the sake of my sanity. I’m not trying to ease myself with excuses and fantasies anymore. I know for a fact that I’m gonna be okay.”

Doctor Rossdale wrote it all down, but she didn’t take her eyes off me. She was happy to hear that, so reliefed. Maybe, she was proud of me.

“That’s brilliant, Morgan, really. That’s good news. What else do you think about?”

“Him. Mostly. Where he is. I’m worried. And scared. But I’m not the girl I used to be. I have changed. For good. And I know that Niall was the one who guided me, but I made it by myself. He held me, supported me. He helped me getting stronger. Strong enough to get through this, somehow.”

“I’m glad you met him, Morgan, honestly. Even if you’re in custody now, no matter what will happen after the trial, even if it seems as if he triggered the killings and everything you recently did and had to endure, he, as well, made you realise what you’re capable of. And what a wonderful woman you are. Morgan, you’re worth being loved. He showed that to you. You’re not an innocent, pure being. You struggle. And you’re guilty. You know that. And we both know that you can’t fully be held responsible for what you did because you are proven to be mentally ill, and you know that you’re a really complicated case. And I’m not saying that I can help you like I did before, because back then, it was self-defense, and now, it’s homicide and fraud, but I see through that. And so did Niall. He’s a lot like you, I think. When I-” She stopped there.

“What?”, I asked, hoping that maybe, maybe, maybe, she almost told me about how she met him. That she met him in first place. That she knows how he is, where he is, how he’s coping. But she just shook her head and asked: “You said you’re different now. How would you, then, describe yourself? At this very moment?”

I looked at the wall behind her, blank, white, then to the window, behind bars. I thought back to the afternoon in Harry’s house. When I was so close to finding it all out. Before the police came. When I sat on the sofa, my legs wrapped around Niall, and we weren’t just fucking, there was more to that. I felt that I didn’t just want it for the pleasure, for the friction, no, for fuck’s sake, I wanted and I still want him so bad that I need him as close as possible, on me, pressed against me, inside of me, not for the sake of the fucking orgasm, no, for the sake of feeling him with all of my senses. Being completely aware of every twitch muscle in his body. Being in control, yet intoxicated by the rush and the taste of his lips.

“I would say I’m a fucking mess.”, I said and laughed. “But somehow, in control. Strong. Willing to go on and on and on until the very end.”

Doctor Rossdale didn’t write that down. She just nodded, smiled at me and said: “That was it for today, Morgan. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Maybe it’s Friday today. I’ll know later on. It’s around 11 AM, I think. I can’t really tell. There’s the outer wall of the next building right in front of my barred window. I don’t have a clock either, which is good, because the ticking would only add to the tension I constantly feel.

I think of Niall. I’m sure he’s in prison. If not, he must have gotten out on bail. I hope he did. Maybe he could pay. If I wasn’t guilty of his girlfriend’s death, Harry would have helped Niall. I really hope Harry is doing well. I fucking miss him, too.

I dream about Niall every night. Doctor Rossdale gave me a little journal to write about these nightmares. But it’s always the same. He’s standing in the middle of the club where we first met, dressed in white, with a big, dark red blood stain on his shirt. At first, he smirks at me, but then, he falls to his knees. I realise that it is his blood, soaking the fabric from a big wound in his stomach. I look at my hands and they’re covered in it, too. There’s a knife on the floor, reflecting the violet lights. And I know it was me who stabbed him. I look back at him and there’s a pair of scissors stuck in his throat. He laughs. And then he closes his eyes and falls, face first. I can hear his teeth cracking,even though the music is so loud. Every fucking night, over and over again.

There’s a mirror next to the heavy door, which is always locked. This is not a stay at a mental hospital for the sake of my own well being. Doctor Rossdale’s right when she says I’m in custody. Waiting for the trial. I don’t even know if I have a lawyer. I try not to look at my own reflection, but when I do, I don’t force myself to smile. I’m okay with looking like this: Hollow cheeks because I ate so little lately, bags under my eyes, bushy eyebrows, the remains of my waterproof eyeliner smeared on my left cheek. The clothes they gave me smell like cheap detergent and dust. I wash my hair every other day, with a nurse watching, just in case I attempt to kill myself under the shower. It’s ridiculous. I don’t want to fucking die anymore. I want to live like I did with Niall.

I keep clinging to this fantasy of somehow getting out of here after a succesful trial, then moving somewhere quiet with him. We could go back to Ireland, live in a small house at the windy shore, just me and him. I could read to him and maybe he’d finally pick up his guitar again, we could cook together, maybe I’d even let him fulfill this stupid dream of his and become his wife. He could hold me when I cry and hush the voices until they shut up forever, I could remind him that I love him, could help him find a way to break his addiction and do without the drugs. And if we’d slip, we’d be there to catch each other. Nothing perfect. Not like in the fucking movies. No, just as fucked up as always. But me and him, together, until we’re fucking old and wrinkly and sick and he dies from his clogged lungs,- I’d die a day later, only to follow him into hell.

No, I don’t want to die. I want to live, I want to suck all the juice from the sweet fruit life is, because Niall made me love the taste of it.

________________________________________

________________________________________

________________________________________

It’s the fourteenth day, he knows that. He counts them, carving a straight line into his bedpost every night. He laughed at it after five days, thinking to himself that maybe, when he gets out, and he was sure he would, he should give his mate Ashton a call. Just in case he’s not too busy touring. The time going by is all that he can focus on. He’s counting down. He’s just waiting. And he can’t wait much longer. One day only is too much, so are two, three four.

He wasn’t scared when they took him here. Not afraid of the punishment prison was supposed to be. He could have lost it by the ocean with Morgan, when the cops came and all of his hopes and naive beliefs died, like he really, really believed they’d get through with it, which he did, in some way, but then again not at all, but it is still there: His willpower and the determination. They put him into a dark and lonely prison cell. And it drives him insane. He sits in the corner, rocking back and forth. He doesn’t talk to the warders much. When they come in to bring him food or escort him to the shower, all he gives them was a deapan glare from his empty eyes. He looks a lot like he used to at around eighteen, messy, long hair, a grown out cut, a lot of red spots and zits all over his pale face. It’s the stress.

He’s raging on the inside. He wishes they’d treat him worse, wishes they’d kick him like beast for slaughter, wishes the other inmates wouldn’t avoid him this much. He caught himself staring at them, to provoke them, maybe get them to threaten him many times. He is looking for a fight, for an oppurtunity to blow off the fucking steam, for an oppurtunity to beat the living shit out of someone. He doesn’t get in touch with other inmates often and he understands why. Many of them know him. Some don’t know where from, those who do call him names. And the warders never stop them. Niall’s more than okay with that.

On his third day, a guy that looked like a shaved monkey, yelled: “Aye, faggot! What does Harry Styles’ asshole taste like?”

Niall smiled and winked at him and said: “Much better than all the cocks your inmates forced you to suck in the showers before! Want me to ask him to give you a taste after my trial? I think you’ll stay in here for a little longer when I’m already back out.”

This time, the warders held the bald guy back. Niall wished they hadn’t.

The food tastes the same every single day. No matter if it’s soup or meatballs, it always tastes like watery chili con carne. Most of the time, he throws it back up anyway. He’s not doing well physically. Because, of course, besides the fact he’s in custody, he’s also on the most brutal cold fucking turkey he’s ever been on. A doctor is present at all times, providing him with injections and pills that help him. He never thought it would be so hard. And it’s not only the coke he’s craving, no, he’s also aching for weed more than he could ever imagine. Just a little ease, a slight relief. He’s aching for one of all kinds. Just a little line, one blunt. He’s also desperate to get off. The medication has horrible side effects: Nausea, headaches. The cold turkey’s giving him hallucinations as well, but he’s not quite sure if those are side effects of having to do without coke or simply the side effects of having to do without Morgan, the most addictive drug he’s ever been on. Maybe they’re really just the side effects of losing her.

Not a single minute passes by in which he doesn’t think of her. He fucked up. Maybe he could have found a way to save her. Somehow, he doesn’t know how, but he finds unknown pleasure in blaming himself. Guilt is surprisingly satisfying if you shoulder the blame for someone you love.

And god, he loves her. He misses her. More than he ever thought he could miss someone. So, so badly. Screaming on the inside. And at night, he sees her right in front of him, reaching out for his hand. Sometimes he even feels her touch.

The hallucinations are painfully realistic. He sees her sitting in the other corner, crying. Looks at her wrists. They’re bleeding, cut open. Like that one night he cleaned them for her in the bathroom of her little flat, already head over heels for this crazy girl. He sees her standing in his cell, covered in blood and dust, then, catching fire, burning to death. He knows it’s not real, but he can’t escape. Is this how Morgan feels?

Even when he closes his eyes and falls asleep, he sees her in his dreams, his nightmares, in a padded cell. Men in white clothes pick her up, drag her to the door. She’s screaming, trying to kick them, but they laugh. He can feel the anger, the pure rage in his body, rushing through his veins like lava. They kick her, take her into a laboratory, put her on a cold chair, tie her down, drug and abuse her. When he attacks them and they turn around, he realises that he’s looking at his own eyes. They have his face. All of these men are just a reflection of himself.

Today, on day fourteen, his aggression has added up to a point where he considers just walking up to one of his inmates in the canteen and punch him straight in the face. Maybe the bald guy, or the obese one with the tattoos on his four chins. He knows that the chances he’ll win the fight aren’t very high, but that’s not even the point. He doesn’t even want to win. In this cell, he became his own Tyler Durden. It was an amusing thought, considering Morgan’s fake ID said Marla Singer. He wanted to pick a fight. And lose it. He’d fight, he’d do well, he wouldn’t just let his opponent win, but he’d do anything to get them to punch him as hard as they could. Just to feel anything besides the states of absolute insanity his drug treatment put him through and the pain missing Morgan caused him.

“Can you inject me something that makes my whole body hurt?”, he asked his doctor, Doctor Clearwater, on the seventh day. He just laughed at him.

“Maybe you’d be better off in an asylum, Mr Horan.”, he chuckled.

“Take me to one, then!”, Niall shouted. Maybe they’d take him to the one Morgan was in,- he was sure she was back in a mental hospital. Maybe he could be with her, then.

“Oh no, Mr Horan, I know where you’re getting at.”, Doctor Clearwater said and left.

When they escort him to the canteen, he’s tempted to push one of the warders. But he tries to keep calm. Also, he’s hungry, so hungry his stomach’s growling. He wonders as what dish they’re disguising chili today. He gets a tray, same procedure as every fucking day, a plate, and then the man at the serving counter sloshes him a ladle full of mashed potatoes and some spinach on it.

“I do have teeth.”, Niall says. “D’we ever get something to chew in this fuckin’ dump?”

“I’m not the cook, milksop.”, the bearded man grunts with a heavy italian accent. “And even if I were, you damn murderes and robbers don’t deserve better.”

Niall blows him a kiss and turns around to find a table that’s not taken yet. He hates sitting with others. Because they ignore him anyway. But today, he’ll have to.

The table by the fire exit is almost empty, except for Rick. But Niall doesn’t want to sit with him. Niall doesn’t know much about the others, but Rick is well known in this wing. That’s because he’s the only child molester and rapist in here. Most of the inmates in this section were here because they killed or robbed someone. Everybody avoids Rick. He’s the target of everyone’s aggressions. And the warders never hold anyone back. Nobody feels sorry for him. He’s an easy target. Niall could beat him up, he doubts Rick would fight back. He could beat him to death, Rick wouldn’t mind. He’s accepted his fate. And that’s just what he deserves. But Niall doesn’t want to take it out on someone like him. Even if out of everybody here, Rick deserves getting beaten up the most. Niall wants an equal opponent. A stronger one would be even better.

So, he sits down next to a group of men who always share a table, invading their privacy. He’s being all brave today. They all look up as he stretches out, legs spread as usual, taking up as much space as possible.

“Well look who it ain’t, we’re having an Irish immigrant!”, the dark haired guy right next to Niall says.

They don’t know what he’s here for. They probably guessed it’s fraud, but they don’t know about Morgan. And that’s more than just alright with Niall. He doesn’t want them to know her name, doesn’t want them to even imagine what she looks like.

“Oh damn, how could ya guess where I’m from.”, Niall slurs, shoving a big spoon of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Chili. It’s unbelievable. Even the fucking potatoes taste like chili.

“What did you do, Ireland? Last time I checked, my sister was swooning over your crooked teeth. They seem pretty nice to me now. A little yellow maybe.”, a guy with literally pink skin chuckles.

Niall smiles. “Well you’ve been here for a while, haven’t you? Glad you recognised me.”

The pink guy just shrugs. Niall has to try harder.

“Want an autograph for her?”, he asks.

The other guys just stare at him.

“A little cocky, aren’t you?”, the dark haired one then says, mixing the mashed potatoes with the spinach. Niall’s already nauseous again. Sweating a little, jerking his knee.

“Oooh, I get that often.”, he replies, getting nervous.

“Luckily, we’re all the same in here. Everyone’s equal. You’re not gonna get a special treatment just ‘cause you had a number one.”

“Only one? Well you missed a lot.”, Niall laughs. He’s uncomfortable thinking back to the days of One Direction, but it’s a good topic to bring up to get him in the right mood for the fight he’s longing for.

He can’t really explain why, he just knows it’ll make him feel better. He thinks of Morgan and how she’d roll her eyes and shout at him for being so stupid.

“Look, Ireland, if you’re trying to pick a fight, go somewhere else. We’re not twenty anymore and you’re right, we’ve been her for a while. Calm the fuck down. We know how you feel, man, it sucks. It sucks balls.”

“In the literal sense, huh?”, Niall interrupts the dark haired one. He’s acting so stupid.

“Oh, come on.”, his counterpart says. “We all tried that. We know exactly what it’s like. But neither I nor my friends want to get in trouble. If you’re looking to blow off some steam, use Rick. He deserves it.”

“Too easy.”, Niall mutters. He thinks of the day he went back to the café to call Morgan’s boss out on how he treated her. How he pulled the last fucking straw and Niall turned around to punch him until he was bleeding, lying on the floor. That feeling was exactly what he was looking for. Not the one he had felt, no. He wanted to feel like Nathan did, as wrong as that seemed to be.

“Got a girl at home? Miss your wife?”, the third guy, who’s around sixty, asks. “I miss mine, too. I miss Georgia like crazy. Couldn’t watch my own daughters grow up. Kelly is married by now.”

“I don’t fucking care.”, Niall hisses.

“Listen, it’s alright. We all feel this way sometimes.”, the dark haired one says in a calm tone. “I miss my wife, too. And fuck, do I regret what I did, fuck, I do. It just hurts. It’s not worth it.”

“You don’t understand anything at all.”, Niall mutters. They have no idea. Everything he did, he did for her. It was different.

“You’re still so young. You’re gonna be okay. You’ll get out one day and see her again. And your kids, if you have any. They can visit you and-“

“I don’t have any fucking kids.”, Niall interrupts him. He’s tempted to just shove the dark haired guy’s plate off the table, grab him by the back of his head and break his nose. He’s sure he’d fight back. Sure that after the fight, he’d need to see his old dentist again. He could also grab a hand full of spinach and throw it at Pinkskin. Maybe it would also help a little if he just punched himself. Like the actual Tyler Durden. He’s shaking by now. He needs the sweet relief of another kind of pain, a kind of pain that covers the pain he’s constantly feeling.

He gets up, hauls off and shoves his tray off the table. Glass breaks, porcelain shatters.

“Fuck!”, he shouts. “Fuck!”

“Mate, hey, calm-” As soon as Niall feels the sweaty hand of the dark haired guy on his back, he abruptly turns around and hits him. Flat hand, a hard slap, but enough to make him fall backwards. He’s back on his feet in a split second. It’s funny how laid back and seriously concerned he seemed just two seconds ago, because now, Niall can tell that he’s raging. He activated him. He pushed the right button. Those guys are in prison for a reason. It only takes them a hard slap to go from a sensitive, homesick friend to a mad bull. And Niall’s smile is the red flag.

The moment the dark haired guy’s fist hits his chin, everyone seems to get up, they start howling like wolves, some of them yell “Fight! Fight! Fight!”, amused by the sight of the skinny new man with the boyish features getting beaten up by one of the older ones.

Niall grabs him by his throat, subliminally reminded of all the girl throats he had held like this before, and tightens his grip until his opponent manages to kick him in the stomach. Niall falls to the cold floor, the back of his head hits the table’s edge and the warmth he feels right where he fell tells him he’s bleeding.

“Was that it?”, he coughs.

The dark haired guy gets on his knees and punches him in the face again. He enjoys it, too. That fucking liar. So much for “neither I nor my mates want to get into trouble”. They all want to. They’re just waiting. Boredom and monotony make every man a monster.

“AGAIN!”, Niall shouts, tasting blood. “DO IT AGAIN!” He reaches out to hit him back, but the dark haired guy, twists his wrist. Niall hears his bones crack and cries out in pain, even though he’s smiling.

“You wanted it, you get it.”, the guy on top of him growls and punches him again.

“HARDER!”, Niall yells in a girly voice. “DO IT HARDER! I CAN BARELY FEEL ANYTHING!”

“What the hell is going on!” It was just a matter of time. The warders have reached the table, they pull the dark haired guy off Niall and him back on his feet, too. His wrist hurts like crazy, blood’s running down his neck in the back and in the front.

“Who started the fight?”

“H-he did.”, Niall stutters and points at the guy.

The warders can barely keep him from attacking Niall again. They don’t see the way he winks at his opponent and wiggles his bloody tongue.

“I think we better take you back to your cell.”, the first warder says. “You definetly need a timeout.”

Niall just laughs as they drag him out of the canteen.

“Acted up again, celebrity?”, the second warder asks. Niall growls, making his jaw crack. Everything hurts, but it’s great. The pain of missing Morgan isn’t numb, but at least his throbbing cheeks and aching head are distracting him a little.

“Hold up!”, a voice yells right behind him.

The warders stop and turn around, forcing him to move along. A tall man in a police uniform walks towards them. He’s holding a walkie talkie in his hands. “Found him.”, he says, holding a button down. “Mr Niall Horan?”

“That’s the name.”, Niall says.

“I know. Let go of him.”, the police officer instructs the warders.

“But-“, the first one says, but the officer shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter. Get your stuff, Horan. It’s your lucky day.”

___________________________________________

___________________________________________

___________________________________________

Doctor Rossdale is with me when I meet my lawyer for the first time. He’s a tall man with a sleek ponytail. His name is Glenn Rosier. We’re sitting in a table in a cold room located at the end of the hallway. Meetings like these are the exact purpose for which this room has been furnished.

“Before we start, Miss Valentine, how are you?”, Rosier asks. I can’t decide if he’s a good one yet. I don’t know if he asks because it’s his job, or because he knows what kind of person I am and what I’m going through, or if he genuienly wants to know.

“I’m alright.”, I lie. Just missing the person I love so much it feels like there’s a hole in my chest. Just hungry, bored, sick. Scared of what he’ll tell me. A lawyer can defend, but not save you. He surely had to put up with murderers before. But just like Doctor Rossdale told me before we got in here, I’m a difficult case.

She doesn’t know Glenn as well. I don’t know who hired him. They just told me “You’re meeting your lawyer today.” And that was it.

Glenn nods and takes a big folder out of his leather briefcase.

“Before we start, I think I should properly introduce myself. My name’s Glenn Rosier. There’s a small chance you’ve heard of me before, but I doubt it.” He sounds cocky and a little blasé, but then, he leans closer. “Our meeting is no coincidence, Miss Valentine.”

“What do you mean?”, I ask, looking at Doctor Rossdale, who just shrugs.

“I mean, a certain someone told me to tell you this- it’s pretty silly, but he insisted on it. It’s actually song lyrics, I’m not good at singing and-” Suddenly, I like him. There’s a warm knot rising from the pit of my stomach to my chest. And when he says the lyrics like a poem, the knot dissolves, making fireworks go off inside of me. “Don’t hang your head in sorrow, and please don’t cry. I know how you feel inside, I’ve been there before. Something inside you is changing and don’t you know.- That’s it. He also told me to tell you he’s got some fresh green apples and if I don’t get you out of here, he’ll put a nail fine in one and smuggle it in. But that is-“, Glenn says, looking at the ceiling, to the camera that’s recording us, “of course, a joke.”

I’m shaking now, biting my lip. I could cry, all of sudden, I am so happy.

“Is he alright?”, I quietly ask. Doctor Rossdale’s eyes widen. Now, she understands, too.

Glenn Rosier nods, barely noticable. “He misses you.”, he mouths.

________________________________

________________________________

________________________________

I’m sitting in the dock with my legs crossed. I put on a serious face. Glenn next to me keeps his arm close to mine, reminding me he’s there. We’ve spent a lot of time together in the past week. I don’t know much about lawyers and what makes them a good or a bad one, but I’m sure that Glenn Rosier is the best lawyer there is. He didn’t really admit it, but I’m sure he defended many celebrities and politicians before. I’m not feeling special, but honored. He said to me: “A bad lawyer will tell you that he won’t be able to make them drop the charges or switch to probation and that he’ll still try and mitigate the punishment as much as possible. A good lawyer knows that he won’t be able to make them drop the charges or switch to probation and that he’ll still mitigate the punishment so much a homeless could get away with killing King Charles,- but he’ll tell you he’s gonna tear the judges into pieces. That’s what I’m telling you. I’m going to tear the judges apart. I’m going to defend you, Miss Valentine, and not just because I’m being paid well.”

I can’t really focus now, though. I barely listened to what the judges said. Barely knew what I was saying when they asked me all these questions. My heart is racing, my sweat is cold. I can feel it running down my thigh. I’m a little sleepy. I wish I could stand up and defend myself, but I know I better leave this to Rosier. It’s his job. I’m way too emotionally involved. I am the reason for this trial. I am the culprit.

And then, the judge calls him in. Hearing his name from this woman’s mouth makes an alarm bell ring in my head. Nothing but the bell sounds in my dizzy mind and I turn my head to the big, wooden door at the other end of the room. I dig my nails into the desk in front of me, hold my breath. It must have been six weeks, if not longer. I knew I’d see him again. I was just waiting. Six weeks of nightmares, anxiety attacks and memories, constantly recalling memories to remind myself of him and how it felt when he touched my skin and kissed my scars. Six weeks of waiting, waiting, waiting, wishing and hoping. Listening to my own voice. Being in control, somehow. Being strong. A fucking mess, but strong.

But for some reason, I didn’t even think of him as a witness in this trial. I knew he’d get his own trial. But he’s here as well. Is he going to make a decleration, is he going to talk about us? And it?

“Niall James Horan.”, the judge says. “I’m calling Niall James Horan to the witness stand.”

The door swings open. And he walks in. At first, I don’t even notice that he is not alone. I’m too distracted. This doesn’t look like the Niall I was seperated from at the beach.

He’s wearing a suit, black, with a dark green shirt and a black tie. It’s tailor made, his size exactly. His hair is short and dark. There’s a stubble on his cheek, but it was perfectly trimmed with a razor. No bags under his blue eyes and in them, nothing but determination. His mouth a straight pink line, his lush upper lip prominent as usual. He looks like the millionaire he once was, or a spy. Like a rich heir or the boss of some powerful company. But he also looks like the man that I love. And seeing him again, after so long, feels so good it hurts.

My heart is beating out of my chest, I’m gasping. My stomach is turning. And I smile. His eyes scan the room until he finds me. And he smiles at me, too. His hands twitch, he stops for a second. I can tell that he’s tempted to just walk over to me. I wish he would. I want to touch him. He’s right there, but I can’t believe he’s real. It’s like the vision of a wanderer in the desert, my mirage of the oasis I’m longing for.

“Niall.”, I say and everybody in the court room hears it. There’s not many people here but now, they’re all staring at me. I don’t care.

Niall just nods, keeping his blue eyes locked with mine as he walks to the witness stand. His face seems eased now and I wonder if he was afraid that I would not… I don’t even dare to finish this thought, but I have to. Was he scared that I really forgot him? He was right when he said I never could. I never can, I never will, I never want to. Even if they’ll seperate us again after this. Even if this is the last fucking time I see him. I can never forget him.

Only just now I notice the guy that walked in behind him. Everything around Niall was blurry, but now I see that I know his company. I know this man very well. My stomach won’t stop aching and seeing Harry Styles, in a similar black suit, with light blue shirt and a black tie, walking in like he owned the court room only makes it worse. He’s not just alive. He’s back. Back in England. Back with Niall. And he’s here for me.

He looks at me, too. And he winks. He points at his shin. Then, he looks at Glenn. He nods. Glenn nods, too. “Nice to see you, mate.”, Harry mouths. And I understand. I fucking understand.

The voices are screaming at me, telling me to get up and run to them. I just want to feel Niall’s warm body against mine, I want his arms wrapped around my waist so tight I can’t breathe. I want his mouth on mine, I want to taste him and never let him go again. And Harry! For fuck’s sake, I missed Harry. I thought I would never see him again and I’m pretty sure so did Niall. But he’s right here. Hair combed back, chewing gum.

They look like the fucking Blues Brothers. Glenn next to me covers his mouth with his hand. I can see that he’s smiling, as well.

That’s an entrance made for a movie. I can almost hear The Stroke by Billy Squier playing in the background. I could giggle like a little girl, or cry, I don’t know. All the emotions are crashing down on me right now, over my head like waves. This is the man I love. And Harry fucking Styles. Sitting down on an empty chair on the room’s left. Spreading his legs, crossing his arms. Blowing a goddamn bubble with his peppermint gum, letting it burst loudly.

The judge raises her brows and clears her throat.

Gone is the anxious, nervous, desperate Niall I was forced to leave weeks ago. In front of me is a determined, serious man with a poised smirk. He gained a little weight again, there’s the spark in his eyes that I missed so much.

Before Niall sits down in the witness stand, he walks over to me. He puts his hand on mine, knowing it’s forbidden. He does it anyway. His touch sends a shiver down my spine. I wanna reach out and grab his wrist and pull him closer, but the judge repeats herself: “In the witness stand.”

Niall strokes the back of my hand. It only lasts a few seconds, but I’m mesmerized. Before he turns around to walk to the stand, he winks at me. Smirks. And says, quietly, so only I can hear it,: “Daddy’s got this.”

He’s putting on a proper show. For me? For the judges? For Harry? I don’t know. I don’t care. It works. He’s taking up the whole room. Gone is the cold. The courtroom doesn’t feel empty anymore. Niall’s ego’s filling it, every corner, every centimetre of this room.

He sits down and leans back. He smiles at the judge. “So?”, he asks. I can hear Harry chuckle. Did he teach him this? Did he tell him to act like this? I know he’s not fully serious, but he’s doing well. I’m proud of him. And amused. And so in love, for fuck’s sake. And slightly turned on as well.

Everything depends on this trial. I know Doctor Rossdale will do a good job. But I heard that Nathan’s going to be a witness as well. And Emily’s mother. I’m so scared of facing the woman whose daughter I killed. So scared, because she knows I was someone’s daughter. And I killed that someone a long time ago, too. Seeing Niall right here makes everything better. I feel like I’m strong enough, feel like I can take it.

He doesn’t bother to hide his accent answering all the questions the judge asks. I can’t really concentrate on what he says, the sound of his voice, the way he uses his words is distracting me. And I’m watching his face. He’s looking at me the entire time through.

“Mr Horan, this will most likely be part of your own trial, but why did you never consider leaving Miss Valentine? Weren’t you afraid she was dangerous to you as well?”

“Not a for a single second, Your Honor.”, he just said. “I love her. And she loves me.”

I know this is silly, and not a proper argument. But after he said this, I’m sure I’ll be okay. No matter how. I’m going to be okay.

Glenn puts his hand on my arm. “We got this.”, he mumbles.

When Niall’s answered all the questions and walks to the chair next to Harry, who’s going to go to the witness stand later, too, he looks at me and whispers: “Everything’s going to be alright, Morgan.”

But then, they call in Nathan.

__________________________________________

__________________________________________

__________________________________________

His face is completely deformed. He looks even uglier now. Niall’s having hard time not to burst out laughing. He looks at Harry. “That was me.”, he murmurs and Harry chuckles.

“Well done.”, he replies.

“He didn’t deserve better.”, Niall mutters. He’s excited for what this asshole’s going to say. He knows that Ted’s wife and Emily’s mother are going to be a answering questions afterwards as well, but he wonders if the mother can say anything useful at all. She didn’t find the body, she probably hasn’t seen her daughter in ages before Morgan killed her. Niall’s feelings about that haven’t changed much. It was cold hearted and wrong, but in all honesty, he just didn’t care. Maybe if he had been capable of such emotions back when it happened, and not too high on coke or weed or Morgan, he would feel sorry now. But he didn’t. Of course he knew that wasn’t right. But he was selfish. He had gotten so selfish in the last years. He cared about himself. And Morgan. And Harry. Yes, after all, he could say that he cared about Harry. A lot. The fact he was here, still or again, with him, meant the world to Niall. He was so thankful. And he felt guilty. He wanted to talk about Fefe, but Harry told him to keep his fucking mouth shut.

“I’m a forgiving type, but I make exceptions.”, he just said. “You’re my friend and you’ll always be my friend, but there’s things we better not talk about.”

Three days later, in Harry’s flat, when Niall went to sleep on the big white couch in the living room, Harry walked up to him and showed him a picture on his phone.

“It felt pretty awkward to… take a picture of a grave but… if you ever want to visit it,- I would be okay with it. This is what it looks like.”

It was a pretty, white gravestone with Fiona Lenka’s name, birthday and date of death carved in, as well as a little rose. A massive amount of flowers was spread all over the grave. Niall knew that it was Harry who bought them. All of them.

The graveyard was located in Beverly Hills, and as far as graveyards could be pretty, it really was.

What Niall didn’t see was that Fefe’s grave was right next to the grave of a certain Roy Brunelli, who died of cancer three years before.

And that was it. Harry didn’t mention the fire, he didn’t mention anything that happened before. Except for his shin. He limped on purpose. It was hilarious, actually. Niall couldn’t laugh, though. He felt too guilty. How could he ever make it all up to Harry? How could he ever get even?

When Nathan sees Niall, his face turns grey. Not even a pale shade of pink, no, it turns grey like asphalt.

“Hi there.”, Niall says. He can’t keep himself from provoking him a little.

Nathan turns around and sits down.

After the usual questions, to which Niall listens attentively, it gets interesting.

“Mr Montgomery, would you please tell us about the experiences you made working with Miss Valentine? Was she showing any aggressive behaviour? Did she ever threaten you?”

Niall looks at Morgan. This is ridiculous. They’re treating her like a dangerous beast. When in reality, she’s just a sick and crazy girl. What she did was wrong, no doubt. But Niall had fallen for her. He had made many mistakes in his life as well. Nobody, except for Harry, had ever given him a second chance. He wanted to give Morgan a second chance. He couldn’t offer her the big, pure, overwhelming romance other girls were dreaming of. But she was not like them. And he was not like other men. Everything about them being together was wrong. And that’s what made it so right.

“Yes.”, Nathan then says. He told the police officers a different story, he knows that. But he’s willing to pretend that back then, he was just scared. He wants them to believe in what he says now. He wants revenge. Niall Horan’s suddenly vulnerable: Out on bail because his best friend paid for him, a lovesick drug addict in treatment, a wreck and not even the suit can fool Nathan. If he can’t be with Morgan, he won’t let a single chance to keep Niall away from her slip. She’ll rot in an asylum and Niall will hopefully go back to prison.

“Yes?”

“Yes. I was tempted to fire her first, she scared me, in some way. She had these… scars all over her arm and she would always stare at me. She was harrassing me in some way, too. See, I never dared to admit it, I was… ashamed and scared, but she actually really threatened me. When I told her that we might not get along, that she should look for another job, she lost it. Smashed some mugs, screamed at me.”

“This is NOT TRUE!”, Morgan yells, standing up. “You are lying! You are lying to the judges, Nathan! This never happened, it’s completely made up!”

“Well, tell me about made up things, Morgan!”, Nathan replies. “How do you know if it happened or not? You had forgotten the fact that you’re a fucking killer for the longest time. Or where you just pretending?”

“Mr Montgomery.”, the judge warns him.

Niall feels like a bomb about to go off. His head’s hot, his entire body tense. Harry notices it. He puts his hand on Niall’s shoulder, tells him to calm down, but Niall can’t. He can’t keep quiet.

“Shut the fuck up.”, he snarls at Nathan from the back. “Don’t ever say her name again.”

“Oh come on, Horan, you think you own her? You already lost her again. She’s gonna be locked up for the rest of her life and so will you, hopefully, so don’t act like a sentimetal teenager.”

The judges gasp.

“Mr Montgomery!”, they warn him.

“No, let him go on!”, Niall says, making a come hither movement. “Tell me more about the way you feel, big boy. Isn’t it sad she chose me instead of you? Isn’t it sad that you’re not getting what you want? Oh, Nathan, you’re such a good guy, aren’t you! Well mannered! Old fashioned. A true gentleman. Probably wearing a fedora when you go out, tipping it at the lovely ladies. But none of them compare to her, am I right? Oh, I’m so sorry. Not.”

“Mr Horan, you’re not in the witness stand anymore!”, the judge reminds Niall.

Morgan’s jaw has dropped. Her lawyer keeps his hand on her arm to remind her not to speak again. She has to act perfect, as much as possible. Niall just wants to grab her and leave the room with her. He wants to hold her in his arms and feel her soft body against his. He wants to kiss her forehead and her cheeks and her lips and he wants to hold her hand and kiss it, too, he wants to be close to her, and inside her, too, he can’t help himself, he just wants her with all of his brain and soul and body.

“And Nathan isn’t on Once Upon A Time! I wonder why he’s tellin’ fuckin’ fairytales then!”

“I’m not lying!”, Nathan defends himself.

“So, Mr Montgomery, Mr Horan is implying you were romantically interested in Miss Valentine, is that right?”

“Only for a short time.”, Nathan says. “Romantically interested sounds wrong. In all honest, my interest was rather sexual.”

“He’s saying that to provoke me, Harry. He’s trying to provoke me. He’s acting up because he feels so powerful.”, Niall mumbles. “He’s trying to provoke me.”

“Don’t let him, bro.”, Harry says.

“Did you sleep with Miss Valentine?”, the judge asks.

Nathan inhales deeply, scratches his head. And then, he nods. “Yes. She was basically offering herself to me like-“

“This is a lie!”, Morgan shouts. “This is not true, I did not sleep with this repulsive-“

“Miss Valentine!”

“Niall!” Harry tries to hold him back, but it’s too late. He doesn’t even want to. This Montgomery guy definetely went too far. Harry would love to join in, too. Niall reaches him with one big step only, pulls on his collar, dragging him off the chair. Nathan tries to hit Niall, but of course Niall’s stronger. He drops him like a garbage bag and kicks him in the ribs.

“Yer takin’ that back?”, he grunts. “Yer keepin’ yer fuckin’ mouth shut about Morgan for now? Don’t-” kick- “fuckin’-” kick - “lie!” - kick.

The security guards are there in a jiffy, pulling Niall away from Nathan.

“We’re interrupting the trial for ten minutes.”, the judge says. “Escort Mr Horan out.”

Harry doesn’t move. Morgan is standing, watching Niall shaking the guards off and walking out on his own. He turns around to smile at her a last time before the door closes on him.

Harry’s shaking his head, but he’s grinning.

Nathan’s getting up again. He’s not injured, but definetely hurt. Good. Harry would love to make it hurt even more.

Ten minutes later, Nathan decides not to say anything anymore. He has realised that his plan will fail. The only thing that keeps him a little relaxed is knowing that he’s got the exact right pills at home. They can blame that on Morgan then, too.

Glenn is doing a great job. His arguments are well thought of, honest and straight to the point. He doesn’t even always use Morgan’s illness as an excuse. He defends her as a person with feelings, a child that never learned how to love, a young, misguided woman in love. A young woman that struggles. Not the victim of mental monsters only. Harry knows exactly why he called Glenn up and hired him. He sort of hates himself for wanting this, even more now that he knows he will never experience anything close to what Morgan and Niall have, but he really wants them to be together. And he knows that there is no better lawyer around than Glenn Rosier. He helped him many, many times before. Glenn helps people getting away with stealing the sun if he has to.

Doctor Rossdale supports Morgan as well. She’s a kind woman. She keeps turning around to look at Harry. She saw Niall in the hallway and felt like a mother getting caught reading her daughter’s diary when he stared back. All she could think of was that this was him, the man Morgan loved so much. The man who had helped her gain so much strength. A cherub faced thirty year old that could do with a proper therapist, too. That was him. That’s all she thought of.

She says and does what she can to defend her patient, finishing her interrogation with the words: “She’s a human being. Don’t forget that.”

They call in Susan McCain. She blames Niall for the death of her husband. Harry doesn’t even know why she’s attending Morgan’s trial as a witness. Niall’s trial, yes, but why Morgan’s?

She’s done within five minutes. The only slightly important thing she said was: “I think my husband knew it. That she was a killer. He didn’t do anything. I think this is scary.” She wouldn’t even look at Morgan.

But then, the judge calls Priscilla Hastings in.

___________________________________

___________________________________

___________________________________

I don’t really remember what Emily’s face looked like. I can’t tell if she resembled her mother. I feel no sorrow, no pity. I know that it’s wrong. I look at the door, wishing Niall would come back in. I’m still shaking, still see him kicking Nathan. If only he’d come back in. Hold my hand while this woman spells the doom for me.

But quickly, I realise that Priscilla Hastings didn’t know her daughter very well. There’s no sadness in her eyes, not a trace of despair. She’s calm and cold. Who knows for how long she hadn’t seen her child before I killed her. It doesn’t make it less bad, but Emily’s not even being missed.

Just like Delilah. Nobody related to her even attended the trial. And then, finally, I can feel sad. Finally, I’m sorry. And full of regret. Still not quite clear about that night, and I know I’ll never be, but finally I feel the sweet, fair guilt I was waiting for.

Priscilla Hastings has short hair and a wrinkly face, even though she is only about fourty years old.

“You can sit down next to Mr Styles.”, the judge tells her after the interrogation.

“No.”, Mrs Hastings says. “I really have to go.”

She doesn’t even look at me as she walks past.

The last witness walks to the stand.

“Harry Edward Styles.”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair. After a few standard questions about his age and if he’s related to me or not, the judge asks: “When did you first meet Miss Valentine?”

Just now I realise that Niall and Harry probably never told anyone that Harry was involved, too. He shot himself in the shin to make it look like those men who burned his house down attacked him and I can imagine that no cop asked him about it a second time. Why would they ever suspect someone like him? But that’s all I know. What lies did they make up, what did they say to cover up the truth? I’m getting nervous. I look at Glenn. We talked about Harry. He knows the truth.

“What now?”, I ask Glenn.

“I have no idea. I don’t know what Harry’s going to say.”

Glenn wasn’t exactly a big fan of purely legal acts. I’m sure he’d let Harry get away with not mentioning any of the things he did for us once. But then, Harry clears his throat and says: “That was when she and Niall arrived in my private jet as they came to Los Angeles.”

“Excuse me, Mr Styles, what?”, the judge asks.

“You heard right.”, Harry says. “I knew about it. All the time. I was involved. I shielded them and gave them shelther. I even invited them to one of my parties.”

“Harry, stop!”, I can hear myself shouting. “You don’t have to do this! Please, Harry, you don’t have to get involved, you don’t need to say that, Harry. Don’t do this to yourself.” I sound desperate. I can feel a tear streaming down my cheek.

“Sit down, Morgan.”, Glenn mumbles. “Miss Valentine, please sit down.”

“It’s alright, Morgan. I got nothing left to lose.”, Harry just says. My throat feels tight, I’m choking on a lump of guilt. Harry’s eyes are big and glassy. He smiles at me. Knowing that he’s right, knowing that this man has lost the only thing that ever meant anything to him at all - because of me- yet standing up for me, is making me want to rip my broken heart out and try to fix is with his with the shards of mine.

“Harry-“, I say. Another tear lands on my bottom lip.

“Morgan, it’s okay.”

“Mr Styles”, the judge goes on, “are you implying you knew about Miss Valentine’s and Mr Horan’s stay in Los Angeles all the time?”

“I was the one who provided them with fake IDs. I let them sleep in my house. I lied for them several times. So yes. The answer is yes.”, Harry casually says.

“Harry,- Your Honor, I’m sorry, but-“, Glenn says before he turns back to Harry and continues, “Harry, why are you doing this? This is, by all means, not exactly smart.”

“I don’t fucking care about smart, Glenn. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so rude. But, honestly, Glenn, come on. The only thing that still matters to me in this fucked up world, what do you think it is? My bank account? My new album coming up? Not even the packages and packages of cocaine that burned down, not even all the damn weed the fire smoked, not the pink little pills, none of this. What matters to me is my friends. And I counted them, Mr Rosier, I counted them. I have one real friend. An honest friend. A true friend. And that is Niall Horan. No matter what happened, I love this guy. Like a brother, like a friend. The only thing that’s left to do for me, the only thing that makes sense is to be honest and do-” he lowers his voice- “what I can to help him. And the woman that he loves. And I know it’s wrong. Look at my shin, but goddamnit, man! I don’t care anymore. I don’t care anymore.”

“Harry,-” I say again, but he hushes me. He turns to the judges and smiles.

“I remember a night after one of our shows. Back in 2014, I think.”, Harry says, laughing at something he hadn’t told yet, “As soon as we were off stage, it was an exceptionally fantastic show, very loud crowd, Niall and I looked at each other and just, well, started laughing. We were so fucking hyper that night, intoxicated by the crowd screaming our names. We felt invincible. You want to know what Niall said to me? That Irish bastard looked me in the eyes and said, in the most serious tone and thickest accent ever, ‘We’re gods, Harry. We’re immortal. We’re mighty fucking gods.’ And we both believed in it. I don’t feel much like a god now.”

I’m sobbing by now, wanting nothing more but to hug Harry and tell him that he really doesn’t need to do this, that I don’t deserve his help, and maybe, Niall doesn’t either. But Harry fakes a smile for me and tells the judges the whole story, from the first day on. He even mentions the shots I took from Fefe’s body. He tells them everything.

An hour later, after their conference, the judges walk back into the courtroom to pronunce my sentence.

_______________________________________________

_______________________________________________

_______________________________________________

It’s about 6 AM, the sun is rising. The sky is bright pink, light blue and golden. Not a single cloud up there on this early Sunday. He’s carrying an empty beer bottle, kicking a sprite can down the sidewalk. Except for the sound it makes, it’s all quiet in Notting Hill. The cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth tastes like gasoline. But he doesn’t care. It’s the last bit of poison he allows himself to indulge on. No more coke. No more marijuana. Drinks on the weekends. He’s going slow, more dancing than walking. The air smells like fall already. The leaves are starting to turn orange and red.

His trial was a success. He owed it to Harry. He owed it to money. He owed to it to his past.

He was the shadow of the brightest smile on a bleached out poster in the abandoned bedroom of a strange girl that left home long ago and forgot about the achy daydreams that had made him who he used to be. But he wasn’t pretending anymore.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He could head back to his little flat. Everywhere is safe again. He’s gotten used to being on the run very quickly. He misses the taste of adventure. He takes a deep pull on the cigarette, thinking of her lips around the one he handed her a lifetime ago, in their first night together.

“Thought you quit smoking?”, he asked her and laughed, watching her cough and burn her fingers on the other end of the filter.

“I also quit boys. Yet I’m here.”, she replied and smiled at him. He could feel a stir in his stomach looking at her. Nobody had ever smiled at him like this before. “In a stranger’s living room. Smoking with him. Drinking with him. Dancing with him.”

“D’ya wanna dance again?”, he asked and reached for her hand. They had been dancing to the music he had put on when they arrived: Old pop songs from the early 2010’s. They had been dancing like children, really silly and wild. Just stupid, but happy.

“No dancing anymore.”, she begged. “Please, Niall.” The way she talked to him, like she’d always known him, made him feel like… home.

“I don’t even know your name.”, he then said. “Will you tell me your name or do I have to make one up?”

“Please don’t.”, she laughed. “That’s usually my job.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I never tell people my real name. Only few people know it.”

“Why?”

“I feel like… I don’t want too many people to know me. I don’t really know how to explain it. You wouldn’t understand. Internationally famous Niall Horan. Back in the day, even the most conservative farmer up in Ireland had a framed picture of you in their kitchen.”

He chuckled and leaned back. He wanted to put his head on her shoulder, wanted to feel her warmth. But he knew that she wouldn’t want that. That was not what she was looking for.

“I do understand, actually.”, he said instead. “It’s a nice thought. Only revealing yer true self to those who are worthy ‘f it. Kinda deep. I like the way you think.”

“You don’t know shit about the way I think.”, she mumbled. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have heard this.

“But, I’m begging you. Tell me your name. Lie to me if you like, if you think I’m not worthy of it. But just give me a name.”

“Why?” Her eyes rested on his face. He was wondering if she could feel the tension, too. Not even sexual tension only. There was something else in the almost completely dark room. Something he had never sensed before. “Why is it so important for you to know my name?”

“I’m afraid that after tonight,-” he then quietly said, and he didn’t know if it was the alcohol or his foolish heart, influenced by whatever lingered in the stuffy air that made him tell the ugly truth- “You won’t want t’ see me again. I’ll most likely try to talk you into doing it. I’ll act all clingy. Tat’s what I’m like when I like people. I already know I like ya. More than most people I’ve known for longer. See, I’m just afraid that when I wake up, you’ll be gone.”

“You? Niall Horan? Afraid of being left? Aren’t you the type to wish for your girls to leave before you wake up so you don’t get into uncomfortable situations?”, she asked and he wondered if she was still thinking he only wanted to fuck her.

“Usually, yes.”, he confessed and shrugged again. The corners of her mouth twitched at that sight. “But not in yer case. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just too fucking high. But if yer going to leave me, no matter how hard I’ll probably try t’ keep ya, I at least wanna have your name. Something to remember. Promise I’ll keep it to meself. It’s gonna be our little secret. Your name.”

“Fine.”, she sighed. “My name.”

She leaned closer, bringing her mouth to his ear so she could whisper: “My name is Morgan Valentine.”

She didn’t tell him the other last name. That was a clear moment for her. And knowing this was the biggest comfort he had in the rough times. In that night, she already told him her full, real name. And as she tilted back, she hestitated. She stared into his eyes and he saw something unusual, something mad, almost crazy in hers, something that he was instantly absolutely infatuated with.

“What is it, Morgan Valentine?”, he asked. “Whaddaya starin’ at?”

Instead of replying, she grabbed his face and pressed her lips on his. It felt like burning your lips on a mug of hot chocolate. An overwhelming pain that leaves you with a sweet taste and hunger for more. And you know it will hurt, but you take another sip. As soon as she let go of him, he grabbed her chin and kissed her right back, on her open mouth, shoving his greedy tongue right in. She was panting when he let go.

“You kissed me.”, she gasped.

“You kissed me first!”, he chuckled.

She just repeated: “You kissed me.”, as if it was something special. And, in fact, it felt special. Not exactly good. Scary, actually. In a weird, fucked up way. Niall already sensed that there was something about Morgan Valentine that made her more addictive than his drugs and more dangerous as them as well.

“Well,-“, he then said, - “I’d do it again, actually, if you,- if you give me the chance.”

She did.

They kissed, again and again, like teenagers who did it for the first time. And that was it. With swollen lips and glassy eyes, they sat there, listening to a fucking The Neighbourhood song, just staring at each other.

Until Niall couldn’t take the pain this caused him anymore and asked: “Wanna play Guitar Hero?”

He never told her about this memory of his. And he knows that he never will.

It’s a little too cold for September. His racing heart is keeping him warm from the inside. He’s tired, but the cool breeze seems to blow through his whole body. It’s a nice, refreshing feeling. Slowly, but surely, he’s getting used to this life. Used to the pain, used to constantly being afraid. Used to starting over every single day, taking every chance he can. Used to fighting. And also, used to the happiness. The pure, true kind of happiness. This year, he has learned that happiness doesn’t come from perfect circumstances. Happiness comes from the ability to be happy even when the circumstances are not even close to goood.

A young woman walks past, red lips, blonde hair. She smiles at him. He could turn around. Go after her. She surely has a place to sleep for him. But he doesn’t even really look a her. There’s only one woman in this world that he wants to look at. He knows where he belongs.

And like the leaves in September, he will now die with her every fall. He will rest in every winter. Bloom again in every spring, rest every summer. Year by year by year.

He inhales the thick, dark smoke, blows rings in the cold air and sings the song that played back in the moment he never told her about. It feels more relevant than ever before.

“Keep on dreaming, don’t stop breathing, fight those demons  
Sell your soul, not your whole self  
If they see you when you’re sleeping, make them leave it  
And I can’t even see if it’s all there anymore so,-

You’re too mean, I don’t like you, fuck you anyway  
You make me wanna scream at the top of my lungs  
It hurts but I won’t fight you  
You suck anyway  
You make me wanna die, right when I  
When I wake up I’m afraid, somebody else might take my place,  
When I wake up I’m afraid, somebody else might end up being me  
Being me can only mean  
Feeling scared to breathe  
If you leave me then I’ll be afraid of everything  
That makes me anxious, gives me patience, calms me down  
Lets me face this, let me sleep, and when I wake up,  
Let me be,-“

He sings, loud and passionate, because he is passionate about everything he ever does. He always was. Like the careless boy he had been when he enjoyed the time of his life for as long as it lasted. But what he now considered the time of his life didn’t end. It lasts. Up until this moment, on the lonely road in the middle of London, on a cold Sunday morning, with tired feet and burning lungs, heavy bones and the usual ache in his chest. And it goes on and on. Just like him. He smiles and walks on into the sunrise.

THE END


	26. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You look so cool,  
> you look so cool

I pretend I’m asleep when they check on me at midnight, even though, most of the time, I’m not. I sleep late anyway, and sometimes, I’m just afraid to fall asleep. In my nightmares, I wake up in the same bed. In the same, small room with the white rug and the golden mirror and the barred window. My pillow still smells like him. The same intoxicating scent.

I have breakfast with Zoe, who finally eats. I smile, I laugh. I’m doing fine. I’m waiting for him. But when I go back to my room and the clock strikes 1 PM, he doesn’t come. I tell myself to be patient. Maybe he’s just late today. 2 PM. He’s not there yet. I tell myself that it’s alright. Maybe he ran into someone he knows. Maybe he’s taking a nap. He’s got a life outside the Bethlem Royal, after all. 3 PM and he’s not coming. 4 PM. 5 PM. 6 PM. I tell myself that I don’t need to worry, but I do. I miss him. It hurts. So, so bad. I tell myself that one day in so many years doesn’t make a difference.

I go to bed. Sleep. Wake up again. In the same bed. In the same, small room with the white rug and the golden mirror and the barred window. My pillow doesn’t smell much like him anymore. At 1 PM, he isn’t there. 2 PM. 6 PM. It hurts, it hurts so bad. It doesn’t hurt because I’m mad at him. It doesn’t only hurt because I want him to be here, with me, more than anything else. No, it mostly hurts because I understand. I understand that he doesn’t want to come and see me anymore. That after eight years, he is sick of the visiting hours, the nurses yelling at him, the eyes behind the little windows in the white doors that watch him walking down the hallway until he reaches my little room, sick of the narrow bed we can barely lay in together, sick of my kisses, of the same damn routine, every single day, sick of me. I understand. It’s only reasonable. A man like him wants a new adventure every morning. And visiting his convicted girlfriend in a mental hospital, Monday till Sunday, from 1 PM to 10.30 PM, doesn’t seem much like an adventure to me.

Doctor Rossdale tells me to trust him. And I do. But I know she’s scared, too. I know that she expects it to end eventually. And in my dream, she’s standing by my bed, looking down on me, saying: “It’s going to be okay.” But I know that it will never be okay again. Not without Niall. And even in my dream I know that I shouldn’t depend on him this much. But I love him. It’s been eight years and I love him with all of my beating heart, my healing mind, my strengthened soul. If he wants to leave me, I’m going to understand. I’m a fighter. He’ll leave a wound that will never heal, but it will remind me of him. Sometimes, I’m still scared I forget him in my sleep. And these nightmares that haunt me don’t ease me in the slightest.

But when I wake up in reality, the tiring, but comforting monotony my reality has become back at the Bethlem Royal and I have breakfast with Zoe, who sadly doesn’t eat as much as I wish she would, go back to my room and wait for the clock to strike 1 PM, he knocks on my door at the exact point. He walks in, closes the white door behind him. I stand up. He smiles, grabs my face and kisses me. Tells me he missed me. Gives me the green apple and whatever else he brought me. He brings something every single day.

In the first months, he mostly brought me little things to decorate my room with.

"This looks like a fuckin’ prison, babe, I can’t let ya sleep in a room like tat. The, how do you call it, Feng Shui is bad.", he said. He brought me pillowcases, a potted palm tree ( "Harry bought this for you." ), the white rug, the golden mirror. One day, he even managed to smuggle a construction kit for a little bookshelf in.

"What am I supposed to do with an empty bookshelf?"

"Don’t be silly, Morgan."

The nurses wanted me to dismantle it the day after, but Niall, who was sitting on my bed writing a song, stood up and said: “Yer not gonna fuckin’ make her do that. It’s a gift from me and it stays right where it is.”

I know the nurses are a little scared of him. It amuses me. After quitting the drugs, Niall focused on helping Harry with his new album. They wrote a few tracks together and Niall got unexpected recognition for the ones he had co-produced. After all the shit the media had given him, he had slowly but surely made his way back to everybody’s secret darling. Appeared in public more, attended events, talked about rehab in serious interviews.

He told me that many people asked him about me. That there were discussions going on. On talkshows, in the newspaper. About self-defense. The influence of a broken family on a child. Discussions about depression and other mental disorders. He openly spoke about it, too. “You polarize, baby.”, he told me. “People talk about you. Talk about second chances. And turd chances. People start to openly talk about mental illnesses more. Take dem seriously. They sympathize with you.”

"They sympathize with me as much as everyone who read Lolita sympathizes with Humbert Humbert.", I responded. "I’m a murderer, Niall. Nobody should sympathize with me."

"Shut yer fuckin’ mouth, Morgan. Doesn’t yer Doctor teach you that it’s different?" He cleared his throat and continued in a calm tone. "Don’t ever say that. I know it’s wrong. But I think we accepted wrong as our kind of right a long time ago, didn’t we?"

I just shrugged. He was right. It’s wrong, but it’s good.

After my room looked more like a one-room flat, he started bringing me books to fill the shelf with, new dresses, underwear. He brought me perfume, make-up, body lotions, or, which was just as silly as adorable, stuffed animals. Sometimes, he only brought me something from the bakery down the road I used to live on, or flowers, or a magazine. But he always brings me a little gift. Even a cell phone once.

"How did you manage to smuggle this in?", I asked him.

"You do remember the shelf, don’t you?"

"They will find it.", I told him. "They’ll find it and take it away from me."

And they did. Told him that if he keeps bringing things that aren’t allowed in the Bethlem Royal, they will forbid him to come. I heard them on the hallway.

"You can’t fuckin’ keep me from seeing my girl.", he just laughed. But from that day on, he didn’t try to bring a phone for me again. I knew he was afraid. And I loved him so much more for that.

He brought his phone, though. We face timed Harry and Angelina sometimes, watched videos on YouTube. Took tons of pictures of us together, or me alone.

"Why are you doing this?", I asked him.

"Updating my wank bank.", he just replied. We both burst out laughing, until he added: "I just want to take pictures of ya, okay?"

Some days later, he brought me a framed collage of all of the pictures we had taken together and put it up on my wall. “I look fuckin’ hot in these.”, he praised himself. “Consider yourself lucky, young lady, you got yerself a fine man.”

"I did.", I answered. I had to cry, couldn’t hold it back. It was just that he was so right. I was the luckiest girl in the world. Trapped in an asylum, sentenced to stay in here for the rest of my life, forced to eat the grossest food in the world, forced to put up with annoying nurses and screaming inmates, I was the luckiest girl in the world. I had him. And I had my life. He held me and kissed me and he told me that he loved me and I said "I love you, I love you, I love you."

When he leaves at night, he’s always leaving a hole in my chest. Leaves me with my fears, leaves me being afraid he might not come back the next morning.

But he always does. Yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Safe in his arms, with my head on his chest, we’re sharing the small bed this evening. I’m drawing circles on his naked stomach with my fingertips, my legs are still shaking a little. It’s always risky, but that makes it more fun.

"Okay.", he suddenly says, inhaling deeply. "Morgan, there’s something I got to tell you."

"What?" I sit up, the blanket slips from my breasts. Thirty-seven years old and this fucker can’t keep his eyes off them, like a horny teenage boy. He looks up into my eyes again and smirks.

"No need to be afraid, baby girl."

"What is it, Niall?"

"I got a liddle surprise fer ya.", he mumbles, looking at me with both excitement and desire in his eyes. It feels so good to see that he wants me, I can tell by the way that he stares before he licks his lips and kisses me, just because he can’t resist. I feel the same way about him.

"I don’t like surprises.", I complain. He bites my lower lip, fingers tangled in my hair on the back of my head. "You know that."

"You’ll like this one.", he growls. "It’s just great."

He’s proud of whatever he’s going to tell me, I see that in his flushed face. His hair’s a little longer again, flat today. He could trim his sideburns, but he seems to like the Uncle Jesse thing he’s got going on.

"What is it?", I grouse. "Ni-all."

He smirks, strokes my cheek and says: “Well… I talked to some people who talked to some people who talked to Doctor Rossdale who talked to the nurses who talked to Glenn who talked to some judges who talked to Doctor Rossdale again and in all honesty, Harry did most oft this-” He chuckles, then goes back to his cocky announcement tone, “but it’s summer and it’s been eight fuckin’ years, baby, and every day’s been a little adventure, but we’re goin’ on a big one now.”

"Wh-at do you mean?" My heart skips a beat, my body’s tingling. What is he talking about.

He winks at me, shrugs and says: “Daddy’s takin’ you on vacation.” He chuckles and kisses me again, but I’m having a hard time responding because I don’t really know how to react. I don’t understand, I can’t imagine that they’re letting me go.

"You’re not kidnapping me and making me run from the law again, are you?"

"No, silly. This time, it’s absolutely legal. And we don’t need fake ideas. We’re gonna be Morgan Valentine and Niall Horan and it’s going to be absolutely wonderful.", he explains. "We’re going to Brighton."

"Br-Brighton?" It’s been very, very long since I’ve been there for the last time.

"Uh-hu.", he nods. "I booked a little hotel for us, really close to the beach. Everything’s going to be okay. Whaddya think I bought tat damn suitcase for some weeks ago?", he laughs. He’s right, he brought me a black suitcase and said "Just in case", and I thought it was supposed to be a linguistic joke, but now I understand. I wrap my arms around him and kiss his cheek. I can’t believe it.

"Want me to help ya pack yer stuff?", he asks. "Pack a bikini ‘n all tat. Even though I think we won’t leave the hotel room much in the first days.", he growls.

"Niall, I- I fucking love you.", I just say.

"I know you do. How could you not.", he chuckles before he kisses me again.

I’m having the same damn nightmare that night. What if he doesn’t come to pick me up? But as the sun rises the next day, he walks into my room, casting a shadow on the golden patterns the morning light casts on my white wall.

"Ready?", he asks.

I reach for his hand and he picks up my suitcase with his other one. Like this, we walk down the empty hallway. Everyone in here is still sleeping. But I’m wide awake. And as I step out on the street and inhale London’s fresh July air, as I turn to him and he smiles at me, proud, relieved, and, after all these years, in love, just like me, I realise that except for the birds in the trees and some cars driving by, it’s absolutely silent.

The voices have been quiet for a while now.

I hold his hand. “Are you happy, babe?”, he asks me. “Because I am.”

"I’m happy.", I say.

Happy and so, so, so alive.

I don’t believe in happy ends. I don’t believe in that kind of fucked up Hollywood fairytale. I believe there’s always many possible ends to a story and the happy one barely ever happens. But Niall and my story doesn’t end. There is no end to what Niall and I have. It’s not over. Not until our bodies rot six feet under and our souls burn in hell. And even then I will love him with whatever’s left of me, in the most impure way ever. And I know he’ll love me, too. That’s the only thing I know. The only thing I need to know.

He kisses me.

"I’m not just making this up in my mind, am I?", I ask him.

"No, you’re not.", he tells me. "I’m right here, with you, by your side. And this is where I’ll always be."

We walk down the street, he sings a song to me, spins me around, we dance and act like silly kids, he pulls me into a hard kiss, grabs my ass, growls: “This feels pretty, real, huh? And you think I’m gonna leave ya. This-“, he laughs and squeezes, “is mine, too. For all eternity, yeh?”

I laugh and shake my head. “You’re an idiot, Niall.”

He sticks out his tongue and pulls a cigarette out of the package in his pocket.

"Now that you’re free for a while,- fancy one?"

"No.", I say. I remember his exact words from back then, so I add: "I get addicted to shit like this too easilty."

He smirks and nods, lighting the cig. “Comme il faut.”, he slurs. “But tell me about addictions, babe.”

I open my mouth and he grabs my chin to exhale into my lungs, giving me a taste.

I say: “Fucking freak.”

He says: “My good little crazy girl.”

No, I don’t believe in happy ends.

But there is no end to what Niall and I have.


End file.
